Black Angels
by Provocateur
Summary: A story chronicling the ever tumultuous relationship between Erik and Christine after her marriage to Raoul. There will be infidelity, lies, and dark undertones aplenty!
1. Prologue: The God of the Underworld

**Black Angels**

**A/N: This will be my first ever chapter fic! I normally stick with one-shots, but I might as well try something new. This fic is based on the 2004 film with all of the characters being true to that interpretation with some aspects of the Leroux novel thrown in for good measure. Needless to say, I have no legal ownership over any of the characters that I am shamelessly stealing, err…borrowing. This will not be a straightforward story, it'll be written in a series of vignettes (some out of sequence) that will connect in the end to form a conclusion. The first few chapters will take place in different time periods. Anyways, enough boring meandering, here is my first chapter. Please review, if you do, I shall love you forever! **

**Chapter 1: The God of the Underworld (Prologue)**

Fate is cruel. It waits until one is truly happy before ripping away their contentment. If one were to simply rely on fate to bring them good fortune and love, they would wait forever. They would die and their body would rot away to nothing long before they could ever obtain what they desired. That's why it was sometimes necessary to abandon reliance on fate and take control of events best left untouched. Fate can allow one to be born at a terrible disadvantage. A disadvantage so great that they are forced to dwell in dark solitude for all eternity, dreaming of sunlight, warm caresses, and casual conversation. Fate had given him two faces. The face of an angel, and the face of the devil himself. No one could look upon his features and not grimace, laugh, or scream in fear. His angel's face was never beautiful enough to earn the love of his mother. It was not beautiful enough to win the affections of his one great love. It was not beautiful enough to allow him to indulge in his second great love, his gift. His music. His devil's face did allow him some things though. He was a God in his domain, feared and revered like an ominous spirit promising death and destruction to those who dare challenge his authority and question his strength. None could hide from him, he always watched, he always knew.

His underground kingdom was darker than night and deeper than hell, and it struck fear in the hearts of those who feared its depths. They knew who resided in it, and they feared him. He was no longer a nameless child who was had no home, who was nothing to anyone, who was no one at all. He was the master his domain, of his own secret universe of opulence, splendor, and beauty. He alone governed the actions of those who lived in daylight. He would threaten and murder without a second thought, for his kingdom required all citizens to exercise fierce obedience to his demands. Their kind had spurned him, and he would never let them forget it.

He used to run his fingers over the strong ivory keys of his organ, relishing in the sounds that he created. Under his fingers the music turned to words, words that promised him love, acceptance, and normalcy. Only he could hear the words as they wrapped themselves around his frame and caressed his skin. They whispered softly to him, poetic and beautiful. When he wrote he wrote only for her, his angel. He used to dream of seducing her with his music, making her submit to him. He often dreamt of her coming to him willingly, bringing light into his darkened world. Her innocence and beauty would shine greater than any diamond; she would be his richest treasure. Purer than gold and more precious than any other jewel, she would bring joy into his life. His dungeon would turn into heaven, her touch would give him salvation. Once she was his, he would live as a man and not a ghost. He wanted her to come to him, to hold him, to touch him, to show him heaven in the deepest recesses of hell. Her lips upon his skin would warm his cold and blackened heart, and he would feel peace. Together their souls would ascend from the bleakness of his subterranean prison into a world of blissful ignorance and freedom.

The world they would create together would belong to no one else. They would be alone for all eternity, sharing with one another their music. Their souls would become whole again, their losses forgotten forever. Their hearts would beat if only so that they may never have to live a day without the other. She would never leave her angel, her god of the nighttime.

Yet, she did leave him. He was her god, her captor, her possessor, but she eluded him. The call of daylight and childhood romance tore her from his vicious embrace. His beautiful angel walked away from him, her face streaked with tears, her wedding gown wet and tattered. His future, his life, his heart, all left with her. She held all of him in her hands, and she left his body an empty shell. His great treasure was ripped from his grasp by his conscience. He was powerful, commanding, and feared, but he was not a monster. He was not a monster to her; he could not live with himself if she thought of him as one.

He could not imagine waking up next to her every morning, her body crumbled and curled into a ball, fearful of his touch. He imagined looking at her naked form each morning, knowing that tears stained her pillow. He could not imagine looking upon the bruises on her pale skin, knowing that he had created them in his wraith over her refusal to give her mind and soul to him along with her body. A god always got what he wished for, but it was always far more satisfying to know that the subject who granted the wishes were willing, even enthusiastic.

If he were to have her she would need to be a willing woman, weak in his arms. He hoped that someday she may be. He did not know, but he longed to. He would find her again, he would make her his, if even for a moment. He had relinquished his position as the lord of the underworld, he was Hades no more. He was now no more than a man, a man in need of the assurance of a woman. He would be empty until he saw her, touched her, and possessed her. He would do these things, in time. She would return to her angel.


	2. What Warms the Heart Still Haunts the So...

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 2: What Warms the Heart Still Haunts the Soul**

There was no doubt that she was the most beautiful child in the world. All parents look upon their children and think the same thing, it is impossible to look upon the life that you have created and not see perfection in their eyes. All of those months of carrying what could only be described as a burden, feeling nothing but sickness, discomfort, and pain, can only result in a feeling so euphoric that no words could do justice to it. It was simply indescribable. They had named her Madeline. Madeline Antoinette De Changy. Christine had always loved that name, and she felt that her child should carry a middle name that would honor her surrogate mother and guardian, Madame Giry.

Christine held the child to her, rocking her back and forth as she slept. Her hair was so thin and soft to the touch, but the colour of it frightened her. Her own hair was a deep rich chestnut with tight ringlets that cascaded down her back and fell to her waist. She was by no means a vain woman, but she often smiled sweetly and proudly when people would marvel at her hair, commenting on its thickness and dark chocolate hue that matched her wise yet innocent eyes. Sometimes her husband would exclaim that it looked breathtakingly enchanting spread across their silk beige pillows. For a man, Raoul was quite knowledgeable in regards to shading and colours. He always took notice of how beautiful her pale skin looked against the scarlet silk bed sheets that she selected. He remarked that at first he thought the deep red would make their boudoir look like a bordello, but when he saw the hurt in her eyes he relented quickly, and was rather pleased that he did. The sensuous colouring made her look even more ravishing. He had the entire room coloured in red and beige, hoping that she would find it most appealing, and she did.

Raoul's hair was a dark shade of blonde, giving him a boyish look that she often found charming. Her husband was a handsome man, he looked as though he had stepped right out of the pages of a fairy tale, his complexion was perfect, his hair silky, and his eyes a soulful shade of blue. His impeccable appearance gave him an air of confidence and refinery, but he was still humble. He carried himself well not because he was vain, bur rather because he was happy. He still had a childish energy in his step, a constant excitement in his wide smile. His face held no secrets. If he was in pain, his frown would materialize almost immediately. There were no stormy depths in his eyes that spoke of darkness or hidden desires. His touch was always affectionate, never bruising or passionate, but light and sensuous. When they made love their lips never parted except for when he decided to place chaste kisses to her nose or cheek, being careful to never leave marks upon her porcelain skin. How she sometimes wished for something more.

This child had not her hair, eyes, or skin, nor did she have Raoul's. When Christine looked down at her beautiful child, sleeping soundly against her chest, she noticed many things that frightened her. Madeline had darker skin, a deep golden hue. She looked as though the sun had tanned her sensitive flesh, leaving it a glowing bronze. Her hair was a soft ash brown, thin and very straight, but so soft to the touch. Like cashmere beneath her fingertips. She knew that it was still too early to know the true colour of Madeline's eyes, but when they were open she saw the irises begin to radiate that indescribable colour. That colour that often changed depending on the owners mood. Sometimes they were a striking green, others a stormy blue. Raoul would often hold the child and remark that her eye colour baffled him so. He would stare into her eyes intently, trying to give the colour a name, but he never could. He had once said that he could not remember his father, but was sure that his eyes were similar. Christine had hoped and prayed that he was right.

After she had given birth to Madeline on the 8th of August 1874, she felt that she would truly die. She kept envisioning her child being born with two faces, she dreamt about it every night. In all of her dreams she was lying in a sterile white room with no furniture or people. A faceless woman stood between her spread thighs, coaching her roughly as she desperately tried to pass the child through her body. The woman wore a white mask, hiding her face from Christine. Christine was sure that the woman was hiding her face because she the devil, and this room was hell. In hell she was alone, long forsaken by the two men who brought her such torment and happiness. Both had left her in disgust, leaving her alone to wonder the world in darkness. All of the friendly faces that greeted her were gone, the rich opulence of Paris replaced by a barren landscape with a blood red sky radiating scorching heat that slowed her steps and made her breath ragged as sweat poured down her face. Her clothing was always ripped and dirty, her skin rubbed raw from the heat, her eyes burning with unshed tears as she maneuvered her pregnant form one hell to another. These dreams always frightened her to the point of tears, and they only started occurring as she neared her delivery.

The dreams always ended with the birth of her child, a creature neither male nor female. It had yellow skin, no nose, nor mouth, but grotesquely large eyes. The eyes were orange, the pupils large enough for her to see her reflection in them clearly. When she would stare into those eyes she would see her face begin to twist and distort, and she could never look away. The child would always continue looking upon her with hatred, screaming at her that she was a monster, a harlot, a demon. She would always run from the hideous infant, tripping over her long black skirts as she tore wildly through a dark tunnel. She could not see, but she knew where she was, she had no need of light. She could hear the sinister accusations of her forsaken offspring as she ran blindly, seeking the end of the tunnel, looking for the man who she knew would be standing there, waiting to pull her from the darkness and hold her in his arms once more.

She never knew who the man she sought was. Her dream never ended. She would awaken, sweating, crying, and choking on sobs. Raoul her would hold her to his chest, whispering soft comforts in her ear, telling her that her pregnancy is probably just scaring her, but promising her that in the end everything would be wonderful, beautiful, and perfect. Yet sometimes his voice seemed far away, as though he was simply saying what he believed she wanted to hear without truly meaning it. It was only at these late hours of the night did she sense melancholy in her husband. She could feel it in his embrace, but she doubted that even he knew that it had manifested itself in his youthful body.

When Madeline was born after an excruciating day and a half of labor, Raoul picked the child up reverently and caressed her tiny face. Tears fell from his eyes onto the child's golden skin, and he passed the baby to his wife. As she reached out her arms to grasp her daughter, she was struck by a pain so deep that she began to weep bitterly. Her physical pain had left her, the tearing sensation replaced by a dull throbbing, but her heart broke with a ferocity that made her feel like retching. Her daughter was beautiful in ever way. Her entire family was beautiful, but it all an illusion. A horrible, horrible lie. She held her child as she wept. Raoul stroked her hair, his tears falling down and soaking through her tangled tresses as he pressed soft kisses to her forehead. The doctor seemed a mere ghost, flitting about the room and packing away his instruments, his voice nothing more than a faint buzz in the background reverberating off of this sterile walls. The midwife spoke to her softly, but she ignored her.

She was so shocked by the beauty and perfection of her child, but she could not look upon the face of the infant without seeing _him. _He was in her tiny hands and feet, in her skin, in her hair, in her eyes. Those eyes. Her baby had a sculpted face that was so strong, not demure like hers or pretty like Raoul's. She knew that perhaps she was seeing things that only her mind could conjure up, but that offered her no comfort.

Holding her newborn daughter to her now she looked upon the startling beauty of her features and felt tears begin to cloud her vision. She stood up and went to the window, her bare feet felt cool on the mahogany floors. She opened the pane of glass and let the breeze brush against her flesh, her nightgown fluttered in the wind, pressing itself against the front of her body. The wind lifted her heavy curls and blew them off of her neck. She looked out and saw the streets nearly empty, night having brought the crowds home long ago. The moon was so large this night, so bright and beautiful in the dark blue sky. Some clouds were still visible, moving across the sky, casting shadows upon the cobblestones below, shading the windows of the houses that surrounded her. What a beautiful city in which to raise a child.

"Oh Madeline, you have no idea what this life has in store for you." She spoke mostly to herself.

"This world offers so much, and yet so little. You'll often be tempted to stare at the moon as I am now and mourn your mistakes, but it will do nothing to free your mind or your calm your spirits. Please, please, never make the decisions that I made." Her breath caught in her throat once more as she felt her body grow weak. She went inside and sat upon the lavender chaise lounge. Raoul had picked it out for the child's room; he said that lavender suited his daughter more than fuchsia or pink. He said that she was far too elegant for such a thoughtless colour. Raoul thought his daughter a queen, deserving of richness and splendor, and Christine felt the same. She settled back against the seat, and let out a sigh.

"Guilt is always felt in the heart, not in the mind." She whispered softly into Madeline's tiny ear. Every part of her daughter's body was so tiny and precious. Her body, mind, and soul were untouched by the cruelties of the world. She did not know pain, rejection, guilt, suffering, or hostility. She knew only love, safety, and devotion. _Would her child ever grow to know her father? _She pushed the thought from her mind, she did not want to think about such things yet, she had all night to dream about them.


	3. Everyone Has a Price

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 3: Everyone has a Price**

**A/N: Thank you all so much for taking the time to review my first and second chapters. As I said before, the story is non-linear, so the chapters are not chronological. I'm making a character-centered piece that will come together as the story progresses. I just thought that maybe I should reiterate that so no one becomes confused and says to themselves "what is this shit?" and abandons my story, leaving me with no readers to call my own sniff sniff.**

**I'm taking some artistic liberties in this chapter. Raoul's brother, Philippe, is not dead. Since this fic is based on the movie, Erik never owned a siren. He's also hot and sexy like Gerard Butler, with a slight facial abnormality (only one side though!) hehe.**

**To Erik'sTrueAngel, I don't want to answer your question directly, as the ambiguity is important, but I will say that Christine is not crazy. Hope that helps :).**

He looked around him at his former home. The word home had such warm connotations; it carried with it feelings of peace, comfort, and solace. When one was home they had a place to secure their body and mind, a confine in which to contain themselves and their possessions. Everything from the furniture, to the clothing, to the bedding, spoke of one intimately. By touching the chosen trinkets of another you touched a part of their soul, as it was their wants and desires that led them to obtain the object and display it prominently in their quarters.

Erik had longed to posses objects of an almost ethereal quality. He had been denied beauty from the moment of his wretched birth when he was spat out of his unwilling mothers womb only to meet with cries of horror and tears of disbelief. Complete and utter contempt plagued him before he was even able to speak, walk, or think. It was naught but a cruel irony that his savior should be a place of garish splendor, a tomb of precious gems and sparkling grandeur. He loved to caress the beautiful golden statues and rich oak furnishings, relishing in their beauty while crying inwardly at their aesthetic fortune when they were nothing but mere objects devoid of any kind of warmth or life. His clothing was always of the highest quality, he knew that it was madness that drove him to care for his appearance when he did not wish to be seen. He just longed to feel as though he was apart of the Olympus-like extravagance that surrounded him.

He had made his home in a sewer, which he felt befit him wonderfully. Yet he created something awe-inspiring still. Deep red velvets adorned his golden bed; candelabras lit his path, black fur pelts rested upon his stone floors like a silk dress upon an elegant lady. His grand organ was his most glorious possession though, and it moaned beneath his musician's hands. It screamed for him to touch it, to stroke it, to press himself into it with abandon. It longed to be passionately caressed and loved within an inch of its life, and he was all too happy to comply with its wishes. When he made his second great love create those hauntingly surreal melodies he felt beautiful and worthy of love and devotion.

Now his great opera was tattered and torn like an old and weathered beggar. Its glorious skin had become wrinkled, the smoothness fading into hard lines of misery. The rich colors were replaced by a charred blackness that gave the building a gray hue. It looked like death, and it smelled of death. His home was now no more then a grave, a grave containing only his hatred and his heart. He could smell his own rotting corpse when he opened the doors to his former palace. He had a purpose this night though, he had someone whom he had to see, someone whose help he was desperate for.

* * *

La Sorelli hated the smell of the dormitories. They still smelled of smoke, and the rot of the wood was becoming more poignant with each passing moment. Soon this place would collapse, the majesty of it gone forever, and in 100 years, no one would look twice at it. She had spent most of her life here, and in her mind it was a haven for her. Now that it was destroyed, she could not help but mourn for it as though it was as dear to her as her own mother. In fact, she thought bitterly to herself, it was as dear as her own mother, it was probably much dearer. She threw her tattered garments into her bag, her movements swift and angry. She looked upon her costumes, smiling at the memories they contained, and frowning at the pain of those memories. Her life as she knew it was gone in one instant simply because one man could not control his emotions. She thought back to all of the times the gentlemen in the opera would laugh at the weakness of women, but she saw weakness in them too. Her home, life, and career were ruined by one very weak man. An ugly man at that, one with a facial affliction that was quite displeasing to the eye.

She sat upon her sunken mattress and let out a harsh sigh before catching a swift movement in the corner of her eye. It passed almost instantly, the movement quicker than that of a swift feline. The figure was no longer there, but a shadow remained, darkening the carpet outside of her doorway.

"Bonjour?" She called out with uncertainty. She cursed her stupidity for speaking, as some strange visitor in the dormitories could only promise certain danger, and she had just carelessly revealed herself. She then realized that if he was standing outside her doorway, he knew she was there anyways.

"If you are looking for the managers or the patron they have long since left this place." She spoke loudly, hoping to keep her voice sounding confident and unafraid. Her heart was now beating frantically in her chest and she felt a hot perspiration break out on her forehead. Her skin felt hot, and she felt trapped, like a mouse. Her ears started to feel as they were turning forward like a dogs would, trying to hear the sounds of the intruder, trying to measure his distance.

"Mademoiselle, may I interest you in a little conversation?" A deep voice came into the room long before a body did. The deep voice was smooth, cunning, yet laced with a viciousness that caused her to tremble. Her hands shook with fear and her lower back began to ache from the tremors of her lithe body.

"Leave now, before I call for the police." She could no longer hide the fear in her tone as she looked around frantically for an object with which to defend herself. She grasped a candlestick off of the blackened nightstand and gripped it in her right hand. She felt the cool metal slide downwards in her soaking wet hands.

"If you dare even attempt something so futile, I shall wring the life from your body and you will be dead before you hit the ground." The menace in his voice was familiar, she had heard it before. The ominous voice finally materialized before her, and its owner was just as frightening. A tall and powerful man stood before her, a sword held in front of his strong body, the point touching the floor, the glaring silver skull challenging her and her ridiculous excuse for a weapon. The eyes on the skull mocked her, laughing at her juvenile efforts. He stepped towards her, keeping the sword pointing downwards, using it as one would a gloriously bejeweled walking stick openly advertising their wealth. This advertised the power in his seemingly non-chalant pose. His body was still masked by the shadows, the dark hallway obscuring his face. He stood with his legs spread, one gloved fist gripping the handle of his instrument of death, the other placed arrogantly against his hip. His shoulders were broad and strong, and his posture was alarmingly straight. He filled the doorway with his presence, she could not see his eyes, but she could feel him staring at her with a lifeless expression. She felt ice run through her heated veins as he allowed her to take in his form, to fear his prowess, to cower at his greatness. The candlestick slipped further, she placed it between her knees and ran her hands down her dress, trying desperately to rid them of the sweat that kept her grip loose and her skin clammy with fright.

He continued to advance towards her, keeping the sword in front of him, dancing with it in a way that was so graceful she almost felt a certain amount of admiration for him. Perhaps she would have found his masculine appeal enticing had she not been fearing that he was about to ravish and murder her. He finally stepped into the light and she glanced up at his face, her mouth agape, her eyes wide. He wore a white porcelain mask over the right half of his face, covering him from his forehead down to his upper lip. He was sneering at her, his lip rising in an arrogant smirk, his dark blue-green eyes flashing. The flames of the candles created an eerie glow on his skin, leaving parts of it in shadow while shedding orange light around his eyes and mouth. He looked cruel, sadistic, like he was preparing to tear into a trapped creature, gladly spilling its blood. He barred his perfect teeth, but still his eyes remained calm, showing patience and victory rather then wild rage.

La Sorelli lost control of her better judgment and rose from the bed, preparing to tear from the room in horror, screaming out for help. The notorious Phantom would not allow such a thing though; he gently touched his blade to her throat when he saw her begin to rise.

"Sit still Mademoiselle. I have much to discuss with you. If I may be so bold, and I shall be because I am not one for formality, I shall say that I have much to offer you. How would you feel about striking a most satisfying bargain with the feared opera ghost?" He lifted her chin with the sword; her eyes shining with unshed tears, her lips quivering with fright. Her breathing was audible, it was harsh and ragged, the same way she breathed when she spread her legs for Philippe De Changy. He had watched them coupling many times, it had amused him, and it had excited him. An unwillingly celibate man needed to fulfill his desires somehow, did he not?

"You can offer me nothing, I do not make bargains with murderers?"

"Faulty logic my lovely trollop! You have made love to many a man who has killed. Yes, they have killed in the name of honor and patriotism, but kill they have done. You lie on your back and open your legs, and they promise you riches. That is a bargain, and they are murderers."

"You pig!" She spat at him. "They do kill for honor, you kill for no reason at all other then the fact that the object of your affections chooses not to spread her legs for you!" He looked upon her in shock, he felt his arm start to tremble, he longed to slap the insolence off of her pitifully pretty face, but he knew that smearing her pert nose across her flawless skin would make her less then willing to reason with him.

"Do not speak of things that you know nothing about. I wanted much, much more from the woman you speak of then a fast fuck in the corridors." He never raised his voice, but she had still never heardanything more dangerous. She shuddered.

"I suppose you want one from me, since your first choice denied you." She spoke quietly.

"If I did I would have gotten it by now and been on my way. It would have happened before you even had a chance to scream or feel your skirts being ripped from your body."

"You try to frighten me."

"I do not need to try." She shook once again, a shudder coming straight from her rigged bones. The words he spoke were very true.

"Why have you come back here? I could tell everyone that I saw you, and once they knew that you were not dead they would hunt you down like an animal and murder you like one too. No one would show you any mercy or restraint, they would shoot you like a rabid dog and hang your body with pleasure."

"Do I sense bloodlust in your tone my lady?" He lifted her chin with his blade once more and chuckled silently. Only his mouth showed the slight laugh, his eyes remained icy and focused, burning into her soul. The muscles in his jaw were stiff and tight, the tension in them visible through his tanned skin. His clean-shaven face still looked gruff, the darkness of the hairs showing beneath his bronze complexion.

"Yes you do. You deserve nothing but contempt and death for all of the lives that you have ruined." Her words bit into him like daggers. It was though she had run a rusty blade down his chest, leaving jagged lacerations in his flesh.

"I ruined lives, yes. Have you ever given a thought as to why though? I know that you are not the most intelligent of women, but you must have looked at my face and knew at least one of the reasons…" He stopped speaking; he did not wish to bemoan his fate any longer. He did not come here this night to cry about the past.

"Your face does not concern me. Why have you come?" The traitorous part of her heart felt a second of pity for his grave misfortune.

"You do realize that at your age, it would almost impossible to find a position in another opera house. Dancers seldom live past the age of 25, career-wise of course. After they stop dancing their bodies soften and grow wide, their lovers grow disinterested, and they die slow and painful deaths. They are but spoiled fruits, bruised and rotten, and easily disposable."

"I have no interest in listening to your fear-mongering!" His words expressed a truth that she went to sleep dreading each and every night.

"I know of a place where you can gain steady employment. They will see in you only ripeness, and you can reward their good judgment by dancing away for them each night and riding their investors in the bedrooms of their vast estates."

"Fuck you."

"Touché. You'll want to after you see what I am about to do for you in exchange for a little bit of information." She nearly slapped him for his impudence.

"The Populaire only kept you out of loyalty and laziness. You've been here too long to discard easily, and who wants to audition new dancers when it's not completely necessary? Madame Giry liked you enough, although she laughed at your simplicity whenever you opened your mouth. Now, long ago she wrote recommendations on each and every one of her dancers because she fell ill and feared that she would pass unexpectedly. As good fortune would have it, our saintly matriarch survived her illness and stored her papers away, never giving them a second thought. Now, I have your shining review on my person, and I will give it to you, along with one thousand francs, should you choose to comply with my request." He started at her, scanning her face for resignation and weakness.

She knew that at 28 years old, her career was in jeopardy. She favored the attentions of the Count De Changy, but did not feel like a proposal was imminent, or even probable. Perhaps it would be best to let her selfishness dictate her decisions, she had much to lose. Much more than anyone else at the moment, in her mind.

"What do you plan on asking of me, Monsieur Opera Ghost? Or should I say, Monsieur Don Juan?"

"Your insolence is beginning to annoy me." He raised one beautifully shaped dark brow at her, his eyes quickly flashing in anger at her ironic mockery.

"Well, if you do not want to bargain with me, you do not have to." She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly; she had taken enough abuse from this man to last three lifetimes.

"Your childish defiance does nothing." He stood before her, her face was at the level of his abdomen. It was an obvious gesture of intimidation and dominance.

"You still keep company with Philippe De Changy, no?" He looked down at her, an expression of mild amusement and calm detachment on his face.

"That is none of your concern." In less than a second he had fisted her blonde hair through his gloved fingers and roughly dragged her head to meet his gaze.

"It is very much my concern. You will tell me what I need to hear or I will butcher you like a pig." He bit out the guttural threat with malice. He had such a powerful voice.

"Yes, Yes I still see him from time to time." She gripped his wrist and tried to pull his hand off of her, but he was much stronger than she.

"Wonderful!" He released her hair, but remained a mere foot in front of her, he could still hear her breathing, he swore that he could almost hear the beat of her frantic heart.

"Now," he said softly, "tell me where he lives."

"He has a townhouse in Paris, but I am not sure of the name of the street, I do not pay attention to such things."

"I don't suppose that it matters, for I will not be the one entering his household. You will go to his home tomorrow, and you will engage him in some pleasant talk after your obligatory coital tumble. You will ask him where his brother now resides with his young bride. If he does not tell you, you will press on flirtatiously, do what you must to obtain the information. Once he informs you, you shall say that you must excuse yourself for whatever reason you see fit to choose, and you shall write down the information that was given to you. I do not trust your feeble mind to retain the facts. You will protect the note with your life, and you will bring it back here and leave it in this very room. If you return one day after you leave the note, you will find a large sum of money and your ticket to gainful employment. You give me what I ask of you, and I shall give you back your life. How is that for a bargain my lady? You did not even have to lift your skirts." He rubbed his leather-clad hands together, his confidence growing with each graceful move of his body.

"You try to purchase my assistance, do you think me a woman of no integrity?"

"You are mistaking morality for integrity. I am asking you to do something traitorous so that you may ensure your survival. One must possess integrity in order to thrive, and often times morals compromise integrity."

"I am not a criminal, I will not aid one."

"Oh, I think you will. You may love the Count, but you love yourself more." His words hung in the air like the scent of cheap cologne. For a man who lived in solitude, he could read into the deepest recesses of the weak human mind with ease.

"I will do this. I will do it only because I know of my future if I do not, you are not the only person with intricate knowledge of the unfairness of this world."

"Ah, you are deceptively wise. However, if you decide to inform the authorities of our discussion this night I shall be forced to murder both you and the Count. I know this place better then any eunuch posing as law enforcer.If they come, I shall see them, and you will pay dearly for your betrayal." His voice was calm when he spoke, the determination in his tone prominent. She stared up at him, she would not go to the authorities, she was too content with their bargain, and too fearful of his promises. He seemed to be a man who kept his word.

"No one will ever know. I will keep my word, and you will keep yours."

"Everyone has a price it would seem, I am glad to have been able to meet yours."

"May God save your tortured soul." She whispered silently as he turned from her and began to walk from the room.

"Unnecessary my dear. There is no god, and I certainly have no soul." His soul lived in the body of another person entirely, a person whom he would tear the world apart to find.


	4. In Dreams He Comes

Black Angels

Chapter 4: In Dreams He Comes

A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. They feel my spirit with a strange sweet…something when they grant to me their glory in my inbox.

**Shadow of The Underdark****: I haven't read "Phantom" by Susan Kay, it's nearly impossible to obtain. I tried to order a copy on ebay, but the asking prices were ridiculous. I would love to read it, but I don't foresee that happening anytime soon, which is most unfortunate. Your advice is still very much appreciated. **

**R-Rated chapter ahead, nothing too explicit though, that's for later!**

If one ever thought it impossible to drown in a sea of faces, they were sorely mistaken. Sometimes the identical smiles and stiff voices overwhelmed the senses and robbed them of their sharpness. Christine had always dreamed of a beautiful wedding day in a magnificent medieval church flowing with flowers, silk gowns, debonair suits, and overjoyed hearts. She envisioned pink and white roses surrounding her as she walked towards her waiting husband while clasping the trembling arm of her tearful father. She would see only happiness on the faces of the guests, mirroring her own joy with the sparkles in their smiling eyes. The sun would shine as it had never shone before, reaching down from the heavens to bathe the gray stone walls in magnificent light, filling the ancient building with warmth and visions of blissful beginnings. She wanted to feel as though the angels themselves walked behind her and her father, their feet never touching the floor as they spoke to her promises of a beautiful life, one free from suffering and pain. The glaring sunlight would allow the stained glass windows to radiate their brilliant colours, bathing the white walls in a menagerie of magnificent shadings. The elegant rainbows would spread across the floor, making her path to matrimony one of startling beauty. All of the crystal tears flowing down the faces of the guests would be tears of joy, sparkling and pure.

Such juvenile dreams of splendor were just that though, dreams. The English sky was dreary this day, the rain threatening to pour down at any moment. Faint drops had already been unleashed, smattering pathetically upon the roof of the gray and brown church. One rebellious and hateful drop managed to work its way through the wooden shingles and land unceremoniously before Christine's white silken shoe. It sunk through the wood at her foot, leaving an ugly brown stain in its wake. The angels that were supposed to guide her were crying now, ugly brown tears of anguish. She walked down the aisle alone, the eyes of the guests somber and cold. Most flipped absently through their prayer books, avoiding watching her as she walked towards her smiling fiancée. Some men coughed loudly into their balled fists while women tastefully cleared their throats while examining the fascinating shapes of their fingernails, picking at seemingly engrossing dry bits of skin. How she longed for her father, he would have held her close and smiled sweetly at his only beloved child. The only smiles she received were from her husband to be and Madame and Meg Giry. Raoul's family looked annoyed at being forced to attend the inconvenient and rushed ceremony, they cursed their propriety inwardly and wished to be elsewhere. Philippe tried to remember the last time he cleaned his decorative dueling pistols and tried to envision the dust and dirt that must have been collecting on them.

Christine walked towards Raoul; she could not help but smile when she set her eyes upon his glowing face. He had recovered wonderfully from his prior ordeal, his disposition no longer withdrawn, his countenance no longer furrowed by unpleasant thoughts. She felt like a mere street urchin this day. She had no time to even purchase a proper wedding gown, Raoul was in such a rush to be wed that he said that minor details should be ignored. Why he was so frantic to make her his wife puzzled her, but she often saw fear grace his normally tranquil features whenever she left to go to the stables or to bathe. Every time she left his sight she knew that he could not help but fear that he wound never see her again. He would imagine her being whisked away once more, right before his eyes while he watched helplessly from afar, crying out in horror. If they were bound together by wedlock they could live with one another, sleep with one another, bathe with one another. They would never be parted again, for God himself would protect them, as they would have promised themselves to one another in his home, under his watchful eye.

Christine wore a light blue gown that belonged to one of Philippe's long forgotten mistresses. His English estate was lavish and beautiful, but it remained distant to her. When she entered it she felt as though her mind began to close, she no longer felt like herself. She felt as though she was watching her lifeless body drift about aimlessly, not seeing, hearing, or feeling. The haughty servants mocked her, their judgmental eyes and gossiping lips painting grotesque pictures of her and hanging them in front of her to look upon with helpless resignation. The lair of her ever-present Phantom offered more warmth and acceptance then the aquamarine bedroom in which she slept. The white Persian carpet felt soft beneath her feet, but the coldness of the stone floor still chilled her. The lovely paintings of angels and fruit baskets tried to create serenity, but they only looked ordinary and simple in their formality. The white oak bureau was lovely to behold, but it was empty. No personal items decorated its shelves; no unique scents escaped its doors. She mused over the literal and metaphorical surroundings for three days, never feeling so alone. She smiled when spoken to, and kept her voice polite and agreeable at all times. She did not come here to form friendships, which she had a snowballs chance in hell of achieving anyways, and she did not come here to marvel at her newly acquired wealth. She came here to heal in solitude, to stop the fierce bleeding of her wounds and allow the scars to fade.

Her handsome prince and devoted knight linked his fingers through hers as the priest spoke. He ran his thumb over her hand, trying desperately to warm the cold flesh, to give life to her limp fingers. He looked so wonderful this day, his pale skin radiant and as a smooth as that of a young boy, his light brown brows shaped immaculately, his gentle jaw relaxed, his full lips turned upwards. His eyes glittered with joy, his pupils dancing in excited delight. His baby soft hair was pulled back and tied in an elegant navy blue ribbon that matched his jacket and waistcoat. His matching trousers and ivory silk shirt emphasized his slim build. She watched as throat constricted with emotion as he pledged to her his undying devotion, his mannish throat rising and falling. Men's and women's necks were so very different in both texture and appearance. Christine found her eyes dropping to look into the hollow at the base of his throat, it was partly concealed by his high collar, but she could see the top half and realized with slight disappointment that it was shallow and only truly distinguishable when he moved his head to one side. She thought back to the deep hollow of another man, a far darker man. His was well defined and smooth, giving his neck a graceful yet strong appearance. In her most private and sinful thoughts she imagined dipping her tongue into that tantalizing indentation, feeling his pulse beneath her full lips, hearing him groan from deep in his throat. She mentally struck herself for her perversity. She watched as Raoul's eyelashes brushed against his skin as he closed his eyes for but a moment when he leaned over to innocently hold her shoulders as he pressed a modest kiss to her cool lips. His lashes were not long or dark; they did not cast alluring shadows against his skin. She still loved him though. Her heart began to beat with girlish excitement as her childhood suitor brushed his sweet lips against hers and whispered that he loved her against her slightly parted mouth. She smiled against him and placed her hand against his satin cheek, seeing nothing but devotion in his eyes.

* * *

They had come together awkwardly that night. Nothing about the evening had been smooth, for that matter. The reception was quick, the speeches clipped and unfeeling, and the dances stiff and forced. Philippe and Raoul's uncles scowled in corners, watching the dancing women with a mix of amusement and boredom. The ladies sipped wine gingerly, talking to one another of unimportant matters that held no interest for any of them. Every smile seemed force, every raised glass a chore. Christine knew that they though her unworthy, a spoiled harlot who had a dalliance with a murderer. A mere showgirl who corrupted the mind of an innocent and naïve Vicomte. Only Madame Giry showed tears of happiness, only Meg offered heartfelt congratulations.

They had returned to the estate tired, unfulfilled, but relieved. They could start a new life. They could enjoy their honeymoon free from the vicious truths of reality. They did not think of their return to Paris, Raoul's condescending relatives, or the unspoken past that haunted them in silence. They had changed and readied themselves for bed. Christine felt timid as she pulled on the thin white nightshift left in her bedchambers by the maids. It was adorned with lace above the breasts and left her arms and shoulders completely bare. She heard Raoul step into her chambers and come behind her, his breath catching at the sight of his blushing bride in her virginal silk negligee. She was most embarrassed when his gaze fell upon her breasts, her pink nipples showed vividly through the near-transparent fabric, they jutted against the material shamelessly.

"Oh little Lotte, what a wonderful day this has been." Raoul spoke softly, his voice filled with emotion, his tone lucid and content.

"Yes, it was beautiful."

"There is no sight more beautiful than you." He ran his hand through her thick locks, pulling them from her slim neck and pressing a soft kiss to the pulsating flesh. She closed her eyes and let him lead to her to the bed, their bed. They made love clumsily that night, he often stopping to ask her if she was comfortable. She was shy about her naked flesh, and he about his. They kept the covers over top of them, never forgetting about the importance of modesty and the false comfort that it offered. She felt the pain of his invasion, but said nothing, merely gasping in shock. He moved slowly and carefully, his face a mask of inhibition and restraint. She kept her hands pressed to his upper back; he kept his against her hips. They kissed to ease the tension as he moved once more, grimacing as he struggled to push forward. Once they finished they held hands and began to giggle like children.

"Lotte, if you never want to do that again, I understand." His tone was playful, but she could see genuine fear in eyes.

"I have heard that first time is never pleasurable, especially if both parties, are, well, inexperienced."

"Yes." He felt his shyness creep over him once more, limiting his ability to speak. The discomfort cloaked the room; it heated the air uncomfortably so. The silence in the air was akin to the atmosphere created when one breaks wind and hopes that no one associates the foul stench with him or her. Something felt foul all right, but neither had the audacity to say it aloud.

"I'm going to go get some fruit, would you like some?" Raoul grabbed his blue silk robe and shrugged into while his lower half still remained under the sky blue coverlet.

"Yes, I would like that. I wonder if the fruit will look just as appetizing as the fruits in that picture." Christine pointed to the pastel oil painting of the luscious edibles that adorned the far wall.

"I would not eat a pare that had pink spots on it." He looked at the painting with moderate distaste, but his eyes showed some relaxation and good humor.

"I think that the pink gives it character."

"I cannot believe that we are discussing the characteristics of fruit in an ugly painting, we should be overwhelmed by passion right now!" His indignant response filled Christine with giddiness. The horribly awkward experience left no room for anything but laughter. She wrapped her robe around her and began to chuckle, her back shaking with mirth as she pictured Raoul's scrunched up expression above her, moving back and forth so stiffly. Raoul soon joined in her laughter, the delightful bellows freeing him of his humiliation, loosening his tense muscles and liberating his troubled mind. Once their late night feast concluded they fell into a peaceful sleep.

* * *

Christine felt a chill penetrate her skin as she wandered the underground dungeon. She wore her white night clothes, the sheer fabric offering her no comfort from the damp chill in the musty air. She ran her hands along the slick black walls, feeling the ridges and curves beneath her palms. She walked towards the music, it called to her, it touched her in places that she had never dared look upon herself in a state of undress. Her tight corset caged her body tightly, making her breathing difficult and her chest heave. Her skirts blew open, leaving her legs exposed like a common courtesan. Her thigh-slit widened scandalously as she walked barefoot across the cold stone. She could see him now, his dark body bent over his instrument, touching it with reverence and passion. His touch was not gentle or unsure; it was calculated and rough, but so very sensual. His jet-black hair fell loosely about his ears, his tongue slipped out to run across his full lips. She walked behind him, smiling as she saw his form grow soft and comfortable as she sang to him. Her let her hands room across his broad and muscular shoulders, he fell back into her, sighing as she touched his muscled body with curiosity. She reached for the mysterious porcelain mask, but his hands gripped hers swiftly, his grasp unbearably tight.

"You do not touch my mask!" He barked at her roughly.

"What is that you hide from me?" She kept her voice low and teasing, ignoring his brutish reaction to her curious caress.

"I hide from you something that will upset you, I wear it for you." She walked away, disappointed and pouty. She laid back down upon his elegant golden bed, running the deep red velvet between her fingers. Suddenly her skirts were bunched at her stomach, a sensuous mouth pressed hot kisses against her neck and the tops of her breasts. She gripped the hair of her dark angel in her fists and moaned, letting her eyes close. This was far more fierce and passionate then anything she ever thought she could feel. She remembered his forward touches last night as he sang to her. She remembered how he ran his hands down her body, lingering over her belly and trailing down her thighs. He asked her to touch him, and she had, she felt weak as she fell back into his solid body. He had kept his face tantalizing close to her as he sang, his eyes showing a lust so naked that she was nearly frightened.

Now she parted her legs for his body, wrapping them around his waist and squeezing him between her moist thighs. She arched into him, grinding her most sensitive area against him. He took her mouth in a searing kiss and began to tear the corset, sending the small hooks flying from her body. She pressed her lips to that gorgeous throat, savoring his masculine scent and scrapping her teeth against his rough skin. He began to thrust against her wildly, pressing himself into her body with a ferocity expected of wild animals.

Her shoulders hit the headboard with immense strength. She let out a harsh moan, opening her legs wider, wishing away her undergarments, fighting away to urge to beg him to touch her. She wanted to feel his calloused hand against her wetness. She was throbbing and contracting wildly with each and every thrust, the most brilliant pulsating sensation making sweat break out all over her body. She hit the headboard again, arching her back and screaming out wildly.

"Christine!" A voice from far away called out to her, the fear in it shaking her to the core.

"Christine!" A hand roughly gripped her shoulder and shook her violently. Her masked lover was fading away, his face a mere memory in her mind's eye. She opened her eyes, slowly, one then the other. She stared at her surroundings. She was in that cold blue boudoir, the pastel fruits staring at her.

"Christine! You were shaking and screaming out, you were having a nightmare." Raoul gathered her close, stroking her hair softly and rocking her gently back and forth.

"Yes, yes I was." She waited for her breathing to calm down and the throbbing between her thighs to cease, she prayed that Raoul would not detect her sinful arousal. She gently pushed his hand aside and sat up.

"I must get a drink, I do not want to go back to sleep just yet." Raoul nodded with concern and understanding as she left the darkened room and made her way down the overly wide hallway. She placed her hand against the wall, relieved that she felt smoothness as opposed to uneven stones. She made her way to facilities and splashed water on her heated skin. She exhaled slowly, willing her body to calm down. She looked up at the mirror and saw something primal in her eyes. Her disheveled hair and reddened skin filled her with a shame so heavy that she felt as though her chest was pinned beneath a rock, _or a sinister murderer._ She felt nothing but disgust as she stared at her reflection. She hated him. She hated him with such passion that she imagined herself strangling the life from his body with his very own weapon of choice.

"You will follow me until I am dead. You will destroy my soul, and you will laugh as you crush it in your blood-splattered fists! You have stolen my mind, and it will never again belong to me." She began to walk from the room, but glanced once more in the mirror. She looked intently at her reflection, willing the vision of his masked face behind her to leave, but it would not. It called to her, asking to come to him, _his angel of music._


	5. Her Defeat, His Triumph

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 5: Her Defeat, His Triumph**

**A/N: Thanks for everyone who has reviewed. I always feel far more compelled to write when I receive feedback. I've gotten some very constructive criticism from friends and such as far as this story is concerned, and there seems to be a consensus that it gets a little too talky and boring, so I'm going to start to pick up the action soon. For all your perverts out there (myself included, of course) there will be some very naughty scenes beginning soon. Keep in mind though, naughtiness does not necessarily imply sex, sex requires build-up and patience! Anyways, please read and review, and feel free to offer any criticisms.**

**Big thanks to Erik'sTrueAngel, who has been giving me a great deal of feedback. I'm glad that you're enjoying the story. **

Philippe ran his hand down the smooth bare back of his lover. She had a beautiful body; it was firm and fit, but womanly still. She also had a talented body, it could bend and flex in positions that could make a courtesan blush. He chuckled to himself when he remembered their lustful endeavor that occurred mere hours ago. They were feeling rather excited after an excess of wine and decided to indulge in some dangerously scandalous lovemaking. He thought the term "lovemaking" ill-fitting for what they experienced that night. He preferred to think of it as fast and furious fucking, but he would never say so, for he was a gentleman and would not offend the sensibilities of his favourite lady. He could still feel the cool Parisian wind drying the perspiration on his skin as the thrust into his lovely Sorelli from behind as she scissored her shapely legs around his backside. She gripped his ornate steel balcony handrail and was able to hold her body up without needing his assistance. He could not help but admire her strong and able physique; he had to admit that it was in far better condition than his own. He was not an unattractive or overweight man, but his muscle mass had decreased over the years and he remained firm and fit rather then strong. He would surely have dropped her eventually had she not had the ability to keep her lithe body steady and balanced. If they had an accident and had fallen two stories into the gardens he shuddered to think of what he would have to tell the swarming onlookers. It would have been quite a sight indeed.

"Would you like something, my dear?" Philippe reached out a hand and caressed the side of her cheek; she stirred beneath his touch and opened her eyes, a slight smile on her full pink lips.

"Hmm," she murmured, "some more wine perhaps."

"You'll make yourself sick if you keep drinking." He laughed lightly.

"I have the stomach for it, and it's been quite awhile since I've been able to indulge so carelessly." She rolled onto her back, and he could not help but let his eyes widen in appreciation at the sight that unfolded before him. Her tiny waist and firm abdomen gave way to small firm breasts. Her body was graceful and streamlined, it was not overly thin so much that it felt breakable, nor was it too large for comfort. Dancers had such gorgeous figures; it was almost salacious to look upon them.

He got up from the bed and she let her hand linger teasingly at his backside as he lifted the tangled forest green sheets from his body. He did not bother to retrieve his robe from the bedside chaise lounge, he simply walked nude from the room. There were no servants about at this late hour. He returned shortly with two glasses and a bottle of his finest red wine.

"You're wonderful." Sorelli took the glass from him and watched as the deep burgundy liquid filled her glass, tiny bubbles forming and dissipating at the surface.

"I'm all right, it 'tis you who makes these nights so very memorable." He pressed a wet kiss to her throat. The forward hint in his voice did not go unheeded, and she smiled with feminine pride at the reaction she was able to draw out of her lover. She let the covers fall to her waist and leaned against his naked chest. He spread his thighs so that she may sit between them. Leaning back against him she shook her glass ever so lightly, staring at the deep red hue.

"How does the wine become so red?"

"Red grapes." He answered her with confidence, but not even he was sure. Only Sorelli would ever ask such a question. He did not know whether or not it was hidden genius or complete and utter simplicity that compelled her to make such random utterances. He was mildly annoyed with her childish observations and inquisitiveness at times, but he found himself admiring it at the same time. If an apple where to drop from the sky and land at her feet she would not question why the apple had fallen from thin air, she would simply say an internal prayer of gratitude to whoever it was she believed responsible and eat the apple without question. Sometimes a mind free from complexities was a refreshing one. If she had been the daughter of a duke, a lord, a marquess, or a count, she would be his wife. He often longed for some silly casual conversation to relax his mind, especially these past few weeks.

"How is Raoul these days?" Sorelli kept her eyes on her glass, never turning to meet his gaze.

"As well as can be, I suppose." He answered her tiredly and with little interest in his voice. He had no desire to discuss Raoul at the moment; he preferred to revel in his overall satiation.

"I was thinking of him yesterday. It must have been such an ordeal for him, he's so young." Sorelli could sense the resignation that crept in Philippe's voice at the mention of his impulsive brother and hoped to draw out his interest by expressing sympathy.

"He prefers not to speak of what occurred that night. I know that it makes him upset, so I do not press the matter when we converse."

"I understand, it was such a horrible night for all of us. I cannot imagine what he must have endured, and that poor girl."

"Indeed." Philippe looked at his wineglass thoughtfully, a slight scowl twisting his normally pleasant features into a grimace. Sorelli turned and gave him a dazzling smile and ruffled his short blonde hair.

"Why so sad?" Have I ruined our night with unpleasant memories?" She kept her voice teasingly girlish and turned to face him, moving her body downwards until her face was against his chest.

"No, I just do not wish to speak of that 'poor girl' that you mentioned." He quickly finished off his wine and moved to lie on his back.

"Do you dislike her?"

"I would not say dislike, no. I have nothing against the girl on a personal level, she seems good natured and sweet, she had a hard go of it, that one. What I do dislike is the fact that she has been made my brothers wife."

"Why does that bother you so?" Sorelli felt a familiar indignation well up inside of her. Philippe was a kind man and skillful lover, but he could be a condescending and elitist brute at times, and his disdain for entertainers was insulting. She immediately felt guilty for her anger, as she was going to do something far more traitorous and deviant tonight then criticize his rank in society.

"Christine Daae is a beautiful woman, she has an air mystery about her, which is quite alluring. She is also a link to Raoul's past, and he was a lonely child without parents, so I can understand why he is so drawn to her. However, she is also a showgirl, and an orphan at that. Who knows what she did during her youth in such frivolous surroundings with no mother or father to guide her."

"She had Madame Giry, she was like a mother to her." Sorelli argued softly.

"That does not change the fact that she has no dowry. She never attended a debutant ball; she never obtained any gentlemen suitors during the seasons, she is not of Raoul's rank. She was a singer and dancer in an opera house, and gentleman callers do not qualify as gentleman suitors. It is an embarrassment for a Vicomte to marry a showgirl. She would have made a lovely mistress, and he could have showered her with gowns, jewels, and expensive wine and dinners as he would any wife. He has also ignored the fact that she panted like a bitch in heat for that monstrous demon that night on stage. It is only because he is young that he made the brash decision to make her his wife. Young people have no concept of logic or duty."

"Why must one live by rules when they are in love?"

"Why must one ask a question to which they already know the answer?" He playfully smacked her bottom.

"Perhaps I do not know the answer."

"Yes you do." They lay there in silence for a moment, the tension beginning to mount. By criticizing Christine he had criticized Sorelli, and although he cared about her, he did not wish to give her any false hope that he might one day forsake his values and meet her at the altar. Sorelli knew that she and Philippe's relations would never move beyond the opera house and the bedroom, but she still caught herself dreaming of waking up next to him each and every morning, eating with him each night, and coming together as man and wife with no French letters adorning his manhood.

"Where are Raoul and Christine living?" She asked softly, running one finger up and down his chest seductively.

"They are currently living in my English estate, but he tells me that they plan to move back to Paris. Why they would do such a thing is a question that I cannot answer. You would think that the city would bring nothing but ill memories and constant gossip. My brother's queen seems to be missing her old home though, and he hasn't the heart to deny her anything."

"Do you not find that romantic?"

"I find it weak."

"Where will they be living?" She frowned against his chest; his dismissal of his brother's devotion seemed flippant and unkind.

"On the outskirts of the city. I've been looking at some mansions on Tremblant Street; I think they need a little solitude and relaxation. I also think that they will feel safer outside of the city, far from the Opera Populaire.

"There are so many trees around Tremblant Street, they will have leafs all over their grounds."

"Is that a problem?" Philippe laughed at the silliness of her observation.

"I like to see the grass in the summertime."

"They will hire a groundskeeper I'm sure."

"When will they be returning to Paris?"

"Within the next month I believe." Philippe pulled Sorelli on top of him and laid back against his white satin pillows, a suggestive smile upon his lips. She sat atop his hardening pelvis and began to move, reaching for the package of French letters on the nightstand.

* * *

Sorelli walked out of Philippe's townhouse the next morning, it was an unusually cool day. She pulled her black cloak around her shoulders to ward off the harsh wind and began to make her way to her tattered former home. The leafs blew about wildly and she often had to clutch the throat of her cloak together in one hand and used the other sweep her loose hair out of her eyes. She felt the punishing wind chill her skin; the intensity matched the sadness in her soul. She had asked Philippe to borrow a piece of stationary from his office to write a note to another dancer whom she had not heard from since the fire. He sleepily nodded and gave her bottom one last squeeze before she left his bedchambers. She scrawled the De Chagny's future area of residence upon the fine white paper with the green bordering, a part of her heart dying as she wrote the damning words.

She pried open the blackened oak doors that led to the dormitories and began to make her way to her room feeling as though she were about step towards a guillotine. The sunlight coming through the windows offered a strange sense of false comfort, if she were under the cover of darkness she would have felt like even more of a criminal, sneaking about in the shadows like a common thief. She also felt safer, as though the daytime would keep his demonic presence at bay. She remembered looking upon him in his red death façade at the masquerade ball and wondering to herself if the rays of the sun would turn his body to dust, he was as dark and as sinister as hell itself.

She stepped into her room, that smell of rot entering her nostrils almost immediately. She left the loathsome paper on the nightstand and looked about her, everything was so quiet. She sat upon her old sunken mattress and let her head rest in her hands, she should have felt like sobbing, for she had just endangered two innocent people, one of them being someone her lover cared deeply about. She had not simply endangered them, she had promised them certain doom. She had nailed both of their coffins shut while both of them remained alive. She condemned them to certain suffering and they had done nothing to her. She felt so numb, as though she was not herself. Perhaps it was her minds way of coping with her guilt. Her mind and heart became separate, her logic dictating that she needed to do this for her own survival, allowing her heart to become cold and ignorant to the consequences of her actions.

"You have done well Mademoiselle." That dreaded voice came from behind, burning her ears with its malice. She whirled around, her eyes wide with shock; she had not heard him approach.

"I have done as you asked, now please give me my money and papers." She tried to sound self-assured and indignant, but his impeccable clothing and porcelain mask shook her. He looked almost gentlemanly, but underneath his neat appearance lay the heart of a murderer, a demon.

"Give you your reward and risk having others see you leave with said parcels in your hands? Do you think me an imbecile?" His voice was calm and smooth despite his harsh words; it wrapped itself around her and kept her body frozen.

"You promised me…" She began to wonder if she was, in fact, the imbecile, trusting a madman and damning two people for no real purpose.

"I said you would receive your reward the day after you gave me what I wanted. I also asked that you come at night to retrieve it." He looked upon the address in his hands, his eyes filling with coldness, his lips nearly trembling. "I will place them here before night falls tomorrow, and then you shall receive your due compensation."

"It had best be here." She got up and dusted off her skirts, refusing to meet his eyes.

"My lady, I am a man of my word. Oh, and I would like to thank you for being so swift in meeting my demands. I would also like to say that I can see why the Count keeps you in his company; you have a very talented body. I think that I shan't look at a balcony the same again for some while." He looked at her then, not with childish amusement or perverse glee, but with threatening menace. She remembered Madame Giry's haunting warning, _the angel sees, the angel knows._ He had made sure his request was fulfilled. He smiled sardonically as she ran from the room, her pale skin turning as red as the rising sun. If she had not been so humiliated and distraught, she might have thought that she heard the opera ghost laugh.


	6. First Encounters

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 6: First Encounters**

**A/N: Ladies and gentlemen, there is some hot r-rated lovin' in this chapter. Enjoy it!**

Sorelli walked once more through the dilapidated dormitories. She used to feel intense sadness when she walked through the once glamorous building, but now she felt only dread. The walls repelled her, reminding her of her sins. She no longer felt a fondness for her shattered home; she felt disgust that it housed her greatest and most shameful secret. She knew that once she picked up her much anticipated reward that she would never again return to the place that she once sought comfort in during the most difficult times in her life. This place had given her life, but now it was nothing more then a reminder of her weaknesses and her desperation.

She could feel eyes on her as she walked into her room; the gray and brown walls were alive with malice. They did not look pathetic anymore, they looked threatening. If walls could talk, these ones would surely hurl vicious insults at her.

"Ah, here you are." She muttered silently to herself as she picked up the beige envelope that was sealed with a bright red skull. She tore it open and pulled out its contents. The recommendation was intact, the impeccably neat and professional writing of Madame Giry lining the page. Her words were worth their weight in gold, no respectable opera house would ever deny her wishes. She had become something of a legend at the Populaire. The bulge at the bottom of the envelope called out to her shaking fingers like the quivering body of a lover. She knew that she was not the only woman who had come to equate money with sexual desire, it was something cruelly forced into each and every woman who was not of noble birth. She counted out the bills; there were 5000 francs for the taking. He had not deceived her.

She felt intense relief at seeing the authentic bills in her hands. If he had betrayed her she would not have been able to live with herself. She allowed the feeling of validation to sweep over her, calming her nerves and quieting her wildly protesting conscience. She was going to live as she lived before; she was safe from the unfairness of the world around her. It was with a heavy heart that she quietly celebrated the resurrection of her livelihood, for her gain implied certain doom to several other people, one of whom she cared for deeply.

* * *

"Lotte, you have big feet." Raoul chuckled that boyish and good-natured chuckle as he stared down at the bare feet of his wife.

"You are too honest for your own good." Christine looked at him with mock disapproval and turned her back to him, exaggerating her offended gesture as she did so.

"I do not mean to offend, but my love, look at them! You're so small, yet your feet are quite large." He reached down and grabbed one of her slim ankles and brought her foot upwards, she shrieked in protest, but succumbed to a fit of giggles as she tried to pull free of his grasp.

"These are working feet, do you have any idea what they went through when I used to dance? No, you have no idea, for your feet have never suffered as mine have." Raoul released her ankle and she pulled the red coverlet over her lower body, hiding her feet from his amused gaze.

"You speak as though your feet deserve praise."

"You should praise them, you should see only breathtaking beauty in every part of me!" She flipped onto her back and put her hands behind her head, her nightgown was thick and hot against her skin, she could no longer bear to hold her arms against her body.

"Oh, I do think every part of you is beautiful, even your man-feet." He laughed again, but quickly turned his back from her should she decide to give him a playful smack for his audacity.

"If you cannot appreciate my strong, powerful, and lady-like feet, I shall just have to take them elsewhere…" She got up to move, and he gripped her around the waist, pulling her back onto the bed with him. She struggled at first, laughing as she tried to stand up, which only made him grip her harder. When she felt his arms tighten impulsively around her waist she felt a jolt of electric excitement course through her veins and manifest itself between her legs. The roughness of the gesture was intoxicating.

"No, your feet belong with me, so I can look upon them and marvel at their alarming bigness." Raoul released her and she sat back on the bed, leaving her legs on top of the covers.

"Now that you see flaw in them you will not love me in the morning." Christine acted as though she was destitute and heartbroken, and Raoul let out a robust and contagious laugh.

"I'll love your feet in the morning, I promise." He pressed a friendly kiss to the tip of her nose.

She pulled the thin silk sheet over her and rested her head on the pillow. She enjoyed her and Raoul's playful banter. It was calming and lighthearted, and it often calmed the warring in her mind and replaced it with laughter and comfort. She looked up at her handsome husband, his face always looked so free from pain. He was not a man who had lead a sheltered life, he dealt with the loss of his parents and he had nearly lost his own life on several occasions. Yet in spite of all of the darkness in his life, his eyes always shone with optimism, his lips always smiled, his arms were always welcoming and open.

He was one of the best husbands any woman could want. He had taken her as his wife without caring for the fact that she was a performer with no rank in society. He had married her knowing that she had shared a dark connection with a man of whom they never spoke. He loved her even though his family frowned upon it, even though the man he respected and admired most, his brother, disapproved. He stayed true to the little girl whose scarf he had run into the sea to retrieve. That pretty little girl with the chestnut curls and chocolate brown eyes.

He had returned with her to Paris, a city that held nothing but dark and unpleasant memories for him. He wanted his Lotte to be near her friends when he would need to accompany his brother on business endeavors. He wanted to invite familiar and kind faces to dinner and tea so that she may smile and speak without reservation or propriety. He would move a mountain if she asked it of him. Yet sometimes he could not help but see pain cross her eyes, her face would become solemn and distant. His heart ached when he saw that pain inside of her, pain that he could not fight away for her.

Christine felt herself becoming tired, her eyelids felt heavy and a comforting feeling of warmth overtook her. She snuggled into the blankets and gently caressed her husband's shoulder. He extinguished the candle at his bedside and fitted his body behind hers, holding her tightly to him. They often slept like that, seeking comfort and security in one another's arms. They had only made love twice in the month that they had been wed; neither of them seemed to have much of an appetite for it. The first time had been awkward and painful; the second had been simply awkward. She felt as though the gentle invasion was a chore, she felt none of the explosive pleasure that the girls and women in the opera house whispered about behind closed doors. She was not compelled to let out those shameless moans that she heard coming through the thin dormitory walls late at night.

Raoul was always gentle, and he always kissed her as he moved within her, never taking his lips off of hers. He often asked her if she felt good, and she would smile and say yes, she had not the heart to hurt his feelings. Only in her dreams did she feel that throbbing, pulsating contracting of her most private area. She had sinful dreams of that man in the mask. In some of the dreams she would see him in the distance, and he would come towards her with that inextinguishable fire in his eyes. She would sit upon the top of his grand organ and lift her skirts, her movements tantalizingly slow. In the dreams, she never wore drawers, petticoats, or stockings. She would expose that forbidden part of her to his gaze, that part of a woman's body that no man or lady spoke of. A part of her that she had never even looked at herself. Her dreams would have her acting as the loose women in those shameless books that Meg read in the absence of her mother did. She could never bring herself to read the passages, she always felt as though her father or angel would look upon her with disgust and disapproval. It was a good decision; she would not have to face the disappointment that most other women would after indulging in the books.

* * *

Christine stirred in her sleep. She awoke to find her husband sleeping peacefully next to her, his breathing even and silent. The moon shone through the window, casting dim shadows on the red walls. She decided that she needed air; her mind was so full of incoherent and troublesome thoughts that not even the presence of Raoul could calm her. She stepped out of bed, moving slowly and being careful not to wake Raoul. The velvety soft Persian rug felt cool underneath her bare feet as she walked out of their bedchamber and down the stairs to the study.

The study had large bay windows and two adjoining glass doors that looked out into the never-ending fields on their new Parisian home. She gently turned the brass handle, careful to keep the door from creaking. Standing in the cool night air in her thin night shift and sheer robe was comforting. The breeze cooled her skin and blew back her garments; she thought the feel of the rippling fabric was oddly sensual.

He watched her from the cover of the trees. He hated hiding in the shadows, but that was the fate to which he was condemned since birth. She looked beautiful, so angelic and surreal. Like a goddess descending gracefully from Olympus she stood before him, her eyes closed, her lips parted slightly. He heard her audible sigh and his heart began to beat faster then it had since she had offered him her hand that first night in Carlotta's dressing room.

She looked like a dark-haired Aphrodite, a woman so beautiful and sensual that Ares, the god of war, the epitome of masculinity and prowess, longed for her to warm his bed. Aphrodite was married to an ugly god who controlled the fertility of the earth, Hephaestus. That Greek tale had give him comfort and hope when he first began to desire her as a man does a woman, but it would seem that his darker nature would deny him such a pure beauty. Perhaps the tale that befitted them was that of Hades and Persephone. She could only be his goddess during dark times, as her soul was made to thrive in the springtime. The only exception was that it t'was not her heartbroken mother who asked for her to walk the earth in the spring and summer, it was her godly prince. Her golden Adonis, her handsome Hercules.

He had expected her to deny him, but he also expected her fear and horror to give way to love. Hera had come to love Zeus and accept him as her husband, after all. He then thought about the infidelity and lies in their union, and quickly dismissed that tale. He was a beast, she a beauty, and he would never turn into a gorgeous and perfect prince who simply needed her undying love and devotion.

He watched her now, his heart filled with sadness so deep that he felt those hateful tears begin to burn in his eyes. He loved her. He loved more then any man could ever love a woman. He hated her as well. He longed to run to her now and bring her into the darkness of the woods and ravage her body until she could no longer move. He would scream at her that she was his, that she belonged to him, that she deserved nothing more then contempt and hatred for denying him and refusing to repay him for the gift that he had given her. Her voice. His music.

He knew that if he decided to possess her with violence and anger that his heart would break even more. His hatred and anger would be replaced by regret and anguish. He would cradle her body and comfort her, promising never to hurt her again, begging for her forgiveness as they cried together. He cursed himself for his weakness. He wished to see her naked and defiled, frightened and powerless beneath his hard and strong body. He would take what was his, and he would love every minute of it. Yet, the satisfaction that he longed for left a sick feeling in his heart. He truly was that monster that so many had accused him of being.

Christine heard the leafs rustling and stirring under the soft touch the night breeze. She listened to the sounds of nature, enjoying the peacefulness that she felt. She heard the sound of a twig snap, her ears perked up immediately and fear wrapped itself around her vulnerable body. She knew that she should run into her home and wake the servants, there could very well be a prowler in their midst. She remained rooted to the ground though; something beyond her control stilled her feet.

"I do not think it wise for you to run Madame." She heard him then, that deep baritone that called to her soul. She knew she should run, or better yet, scream.

"Leave." She did not look up at the man who now stood but ten feet away from her. She bit out the word with a finality that startled even her.

"Come to me, my angel of music." His voice mocked her, it seemed cruel, calculated.

"I will alert the authorities. You let me go, you have no right to come back here." She could not dare to look at him, for she knew her heart would race with an emotion other then fear.

"Do you no longer long for your master?" He emphasized his last word menacingly.

"No." She wanted to turn away, to walk back into her home and lock the door on him, to leave him far behind her. It was too late though, he had found her again, and he would never give her peace.

"What is it that you long for?"

"Peace." She whispered the word more so to herself then to him, but he heard it, and was taken aback by her tortured plea.

"Are you not at peace now? Are you not blissfully happy with your Vicomte? Do not revel in luxury each and every night?"

"You have no right to ask me these things. We have parted ways, you and I, we must live our lives now."

"There is no life in my body!" He barked out the words so loudly that Christine was sure that the servants would be awakened. The harsh words bit into her soul, she closed her eyes against their vicious assault.

He walked towards her slowly and she raised her head to meet his eyes. He wore that same white porcelain mask over the right side of his face. The rest of him was so perfect, so vital and sensuous, so masculine. She looked into his piercing green-blue eyes and saw the pain in their depths, the anger at their core. She nearly screamed when he took a hold of her shoulders, his grasp was rough and she could not help but cry out softly.

His fingers bit into her shoulder bones and he pressed his face to hers. All they did was look upon one another for what seemed like an eternity. They stared at each other, neither daring to blink. Their breathing was harsh and ragged; he looked down with lustful appreciation at the heaving of her tiny bosom. Her small hands grasped his wrists and she held them, feeling the strength that they carried so effortlessly.

Without warning he crushed his lips to hers, his hands retreating from her shoulders to hold her back, pressing her into his body. His tongue swept into her mouth, dueling with her own while he panted viciously. She moaned out and threw her arms over his shoulder, opening her mouth and welcoming his suggestive invasion. He was so much more forceful and passionate then the last time she had kissed him. He left her hungry lips to press hard, wet kisses down her neck, suckling the skin lightly and letting his teeth graze across it. She let her head roll back and she fisted one hand in his hair, urging him on, demanding that he do more to her.

As he brought one hand up from her stomach to roughly cup her breast she gasped. His touch was rough and painful; he squeezed the tender flesh with no sense of gentleness or restraint. She realized only then what was happening. Her eyes flew open and she abruptly released his hair and began to push against his chest.

"Stop this!" She demanded harshly as she frantically tried to pull away from his vicious embrace.

"No." He continued to kiss down her neck and began to work the robe down her arm, suckling on her collarbone as he did so. She pictured Raoul once more, and she remembered the look of murderous insanity in her masked lover's eyes on all of those nights where had taken and threatened lives without a second thought. She felt him grow hard in his pants, his engorged member pressing against her. He began to lower her to the grass, and she only struggled harder.

"Do not fight me!" He growled out at her as he began to work her skirt above her hips. She wore no undergarments and became more afraid then before. She could not let this man take her, not after she had been trying so hard to forget him, to push him from her mind. She had Raoul now, this was wrong.

He roughly pried her legs apart and settled between them. He began to move against her with more ferocity now, his grunts becoming more pronounced. The rough fabric of his trousers scarped against her naked vulva and she knew that no matter how much she struggled, she would not be able to push him off of her.

He worked her skirts up higher now, and she could feel the dewy grass rubbing against her bottom, she was now frantic with fear.

"Please stop this. Please." She did not scream or cry, but just silently begged, the tears slowly starting to cascade down her cheeks. He was holding her upper arms now, keeping them plastered to the ground as he ground his pelvis into her and left small, pink teeth marks on the tender flesh of her neck and chest. He could feel her writhing beneath him, and he could not determine whether or not she was in the throes of pleasure, or trying to escape from him.

He looked down at her face and his heart began to tear in two at the sight of her. She was crying, but she made no sound. She simply let the tears of pain roll down her porcelain cheeks. He saw her clenched fists and felt the strain of her thighs as they tried to close around him to stop his movements. He pulled back from her and got up, too horrified to speak. What had he almost done to her? He pulled her to her feet and wrapped her robe tightly around her convulsing frame.

"Please don't cry angel, it hurts me so much to see you cry." He held her close to his chest, stroking her dirtied and tangled hair. She did not resist him, she simply sobbed silently. How she hated him, how she hated herself for wanting him.

"I have to go back inside." She wiped the tears from her eyes and pulled out of his embrace, and he let her go. He watched the door close softly behind her, and he felt what remained of his soul shatter once more.


	7. Questions with no Answers

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 7: Questions with no Answers**

**A/N: This chapter is based in the same time period as chapter 2. It's going to be a little shorter then my other ones, but it is necessary to move the story in the direction that I would like it to go. R N' R! **

_December, 1874_

Raoul walked around his brother's lush office while holding Madeline to his chest. It was difficult not to admire the masculinity of the room, but at the same it was overwhelming. The rich cherry wood desk was one of the largest and tallest he had ever seen. It would be absolutely impossible for a person under 5'10 to sit at it and have their feet planted firmly on the floor. A short man, or a woman, would look like a mere child seated at the gargantuan workspace, the chair could easily seat two slender men.

The forest green walls were so rich and deep, yet so unfeeling. They mirrored the countenance of his brother. It was professional, formal, and unwelcoming. Raoul wondered to himself if perhaps he was the one who was remiss in his evaluation of Philippe, after all, he had been feeling an embittering resentment towards him as of late. He would never voice such discontent though, that would be unwise and impulsive.

"I cannot believe that during a meeting to discuss matters of business you bring your child." Philippe stood with his back to his brother, gingerly scanning the books that adorned his massive shelves.

"Christine needs a break, I told her to go into the city and spend the day with Madame and Meg Giry." Raoul had expected the criticism, and he was not at all surprised by the look of contempt that crossed Philippe's face when his footman admitted him to the study with the infant in his embrace.

"Why could she not leave the child with one of your maids?"

"Perhaps I wanted to spend some time with her. I've been away four times since she was born in August." He hated himself for his minor embarrassment at his show of womanly attachment to his daughter. Men of his class were not expected to rear a child so closely.

"If other men were here they would mock you to no end. My God Raoul! Have you any idea the things that they would say over cards?"

"There does not seem to be anyone here except for you and I, now does there?" He allowed the annoyance in his voice to show.

"You look ridiculous, like you should be wearing a corset and skirts." Philippe lit a cigar and blew the smoke out of the opened window, staring at the gray sky.

"If you had children you would not say such things."

"Yes I would." Philippe sat down in his leather back chair and motioned for Raoul to take a seat across from him. He could not help but scowl slightly when his brother had to begin to whisper soft comforts in the child's ear when she began to fuss silently.

"I want to sell you the English estate, you should live there in the summers. The English are more refined and proper then the French. It would be a better environment for your child, and much better for your wife." Philippe reclined in his seat and crushed the head of his cigar into the ashtray that he kept on the windowsill.

"Do not speak in such a way of my wife." Raoul let his normally soft and agreeable voice lower to produce a sound far more tense and threatening.

"If I may be terribly honest with you, I feel as though something is amiss with her." Philippe made sure to meet his brother's heated blue eyes when he spoke.

"If you value my friendship and brotherhood you will stop speaking right now." Raoul began to rise, careful to not to disturb Madeline.

"Don't be so brash, boy. I only say these things because I care for you, and quite frankly, I believe that your reputation is at stake."

"I care for my family more then my reputation."

"Nonsense. You may be naïve, but I know that you are not stupid."

"What are you implying?" Raoul rose now, letting his voice rise to a stern shout. Philippe stood as well, slamming his half-empty brandy glass upon the glistening wood of his desk.

"I am implying that these incidents of sleepwalking, random disappearances, missing household items, and unexplained emergencies are not as they seem to you!"

"You know NOTHING of which you speak!" Raoul set the child down upon the seat and slammed his hands onto his brothers desk, his eyes burning with rage, his heart beating with the need to lash and out and destroy something. If his daughter were not present, he did not doubt that he would send the crystal brandy decanter flying through one of the closed windowpanes. The shattering would be most satisfying, as would the look of horror upon his brother's smug face.

"If your infant were not here, I would shatter your jaw for your insolence and your stupidity!" Philippe spat the words in Raoul's face, his face distorting into a look of rage. How he hated seeing what no one else could see, how he hated the blindness of those too weak to see deception before their eyes simply because they chose not to.

"You may do so anytime you like." Raoul would not relent, he would not simply submit to his brother on something that he felt so strongly about. Philippe was taken aback by the coolness in his brother's voice; the boy was slowly but surely growing a steel backbone. He admired his gumption, but he hated his impudence. It was too bad that he could not show any gumption towards his wife, he thought bitterly.

"Raoul, you're being an imbecile. You are refusing to see the truth right before your eyes. You have been blind for the past four years, everyone knows this, and everyone is laughing."

"People can think whatever they want, they have nothing better to do then spread vicious rumors. The world we live in is a very sad one indeed. One where no one can speak of anything of importance because they are far too busy prying into the lives of others who do not concern them."

"Gossip may seem shallow and superfluous, but it has ruined lives."

"Nothing could ruin my life, I dare say that with certain aspects aside, it is almost perfect." Raoul picked his child up and pushed his chair backwards, not caring if it left unsightly marks upon the cherry wood floor.

"You are not invulnerable, and if you continue acting as such, a horrible fate awaits you."

"If I want to hear of fire and brimstone I shall attend mass more often." Raoul turned away and walked towards the door of the study, desperate to be outside once more. He wanted nothing more then to retreat to his home and have dinner with his wife. Perhaps she would be more talkative after a day with friends, her spirits would be most certainly be lifted by friendly faces and soothing voices. Lately she had been but a stranger at times, speaking to him as though he were no more then a friendly acquaintance. God, it hurt so much to see that detachment on her face, that sadness in her eyes that he would never know the source of. Only at nights when she held him did he feel at peace, but he never could ignore the silent tears that soaked her pillow long after she drifted off to sleep, or the horrible dreams that made her scream with such horror it nearly stopped his heart.

"You seem content to leave both me, your business interests, and your better judgment behind." Philippe felt his heart begin to sink at the sight of brother walking out of his office with such tension and moroseness in his stride. He knew that he had hurt the boy, but sometimes people only acted when hurt. "By the way, Raoul, have you ever looked upon your daughter? I mean, really looked at her? I have, and let me tell you, she looks nothing like you." With that Raoul nearly ran from the office, not even bothering to wait for the footman to escort him to his carriage. He knew that if he stayed he and his brother would come to blows. He had been expecting to hear those words, those horrible, vicious, damning words. He never thought that they could tear into his chest and crush his heart with such punitive force. For the first time since the night of Don Juan Triumphant, Raoul felt like crying.

* * *

When he arrived home he left Madeline with one of the maids and went into Christine's music room. He looked upon her beautiful sleek grand piano and felt bile rise in his throat. He called in the servants and asked him to help him lift the hated instrument, the one that coated his soul with poison and filled his heart with crushing melancholy.

"Take this ungodly loathsome THING and burn it!" He left the astonished men to puzzle over his erratic behaviour and fled his home. He did not know why he had to get rid of the piano; he did not know why the music it produced was beginning to make him ill. He did not know why his brother's off-handed comment made him feel as though his insides were bleeding out his life. He knew nothing, not even his own mind or heart anymore. He did not want to know.


	8. The War Between Mind and Body

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 8: The War Between Mind and Body**

**A/N: Sorry for the late update, I had a busy weekend. I also have two exams this month, so my regular routine of updating every 2 days might become more erratic. I'll try to update at least 2-3 times a week though. R N' R (I heart reviews).**

Christine had never felt so tortured in all of her life. There had been times of great pain and sorrow for her, but not since the death of her father had she felt that crushing pain in her chest that made her feel as though she could not breathe. Sometimes she would be sitting alone and her breaths would become shallow and her throat would constrict. The first time this happened she was sure that she was dying, she felt as though her body was attempting to strangle itself. What an awful way to die, to feel that unspeakably painful tightening in your lungs, that tightening that could only result in an explosion that would gladly snuff out of your life and end the horrid torment.

She felt as though she deserved to die, for she had committed a treason greater then any mercenary. She had let that man touch her, fondle her, and kiss her until she was breathless. Oh, she demanded that he cease his actions and tried to push him away violently, but to deny her excitement would be futile, and untrue.

How in the name of God did he find her? This had to be a punishment, a punishment for her sins of the past. She believed in a false idol, swore that ghosts walked among the living, and relinquished control of her desires to a man who had lied to her and betrayed her. She was sure that she would meet her "angel of music" in hell someday. The eternal fires of Hades would consume them for all eternity; it would be a perfectly horrible end to a perfectly horrible tale. The tale of a weak woman and a murderous man, doomed to hurt and destroy all that was good and kind in their lives. Ignoring her lady like propriety, she spat upon the grass at her feet, needing to get rid of the foul taste in her mouth brought upon by her troubled thoughts. Spitting was ugly, almost as ugly as she felt.

* * *

"Lotte had the strangest accident last night." Raoul sat across from Philippe in the newly decorated sitting room. They had decided upon a deep pink rose colour, it was feminine, yet calming and elegant. The room tended to be rather dark, even on the sunniest of days due to the tiny windows, but the bright hue brought warmth and a feeling of comfort and serenity. Christine had nearly squealed with delight when the gauzy white curtains arrived, they felt and looked wispy and exotic. The sight of them blowing softly in the breeze was a small wonder to behold; she had never dreamed that she could live in such a luxurious home.

"What kind of accident? Nothing serious I hope." Philippe looked down at his wine glass and swirled the liquid around carelessly. He loathed white wine, but his brother and sister-in-law preferred it, therefore it was the only beverage available in the house. He wanted nothing more then a stiff glass of scotch, but it would also seem that Raoul and his blushing bride had yet to develop a taste for hard liquor. They would soon enough, people from all walks of life always did.

"Well, apparently when she woke up she was out back on the patio. She had been wandering around outside, her clothes were filthy and there were tiny cuts all over her. It was very frightening, she was beside herself with confusion." Raoul was wide-eyed and spoke in hushed tones; he did not want the servants overhearing this tale. He did not want them thinking his wife a lunatic.

Philippe put down his glass and leaned across the table to stare his brother in the eye.

"She what?" This was not at all what he expected to hear. He had expected to be told that she had been walking around in the darkness and had tripped on the stairs, or perhaps spilt boiling tea on her lap. A strange accident would imply something comical, like walking into a glass door, or bumping ones head on a hanging light. As a matter of fact, Philippe could not have been more puzzled if Raoul had said that Christine turned into a flying gargoyle during full moons.

"Sleepwalking, she used to do it as a child. She said it happened most often after her father became ill, but stopped suddenly after he died. So strange that it would happen to her again, don't you think?"

"Did you not know of her sleepwalking when you were acquainted as children?"

"No, she said it only began once her father became ill. I moved away with you to Paris shortly before he began showing signs of consumption." Raoul set down his glass of wine and fidgeted with his blue silk cravat. He wanted reassurance from his brother, possibly a reiteration of a similar experience, or good humor, but he saw no sign of any of these things on Philippe's grim visage.

"That is very odd indeed. I know not what to say, how do you know that this won't happen again?" There was no concern in Philippe's voice; he had a feeling deep within the pit of his stomach that something was amiss with this tale of childhood regression.

"Well, I tried to reassure her that it was probably just a strange occurrence brought upon by such grand changes in her life. She's been through so much in such a short time. Still, she did not seem comforted, she demanded that I put key locks on all the doors and never tell her where the keys are hidden. She is afraid that she may wander off at night once more and get lost in the woods. I must admit, that thought is most terrifying, such lecherous creatures roam the streets in darkness, who knows what could happen. I told her that if it comforted her, I would oblige her with new locks and hidden keys for her safety."

"A woman wanting to be kept prisoner in her own home is a very strange notion indeed. It is not necessarily an unpleasant one, however." Philippe let out a good-natured chuckle at his remark, and Raoul allowed his lips to turn upwards in a smile while he eyes scowled with annoyance.

"She does not wish to be a prisoner, she wishes to be kept safe until these spells pass."

"Few women allow their husbands to lock doors on them. They all pry them open in time."

"I do not lock any doors against her wishes."

"You should, she locks doors on you." The silence hung in the air, that oppressive kind of silence that carried with it more weight and poignancy then any words could convey.

"We all have our secrets Philippe, and she is entitled to a few of her own. There are certain things that I would rather not know."

"That is profoundly stupid of you to say. A wife should not keep secrets from her husband the same way that a soldier should not keep secrets from his lieutenant. The end result is often tragic if information remains, shall I say, behind locked doors."

"You speak of such darkness, I often wonder if it is you who has too many secrets Philippe." Raoul stood and looked outside, the sun was disappearing behind a thick cover of clouds. There was a striking yellow light peering through the cracks, but the blueness of the sky was slowly dissipating. Nature often mirrored the heart, or perhaps it was the other way around.

"I have no secrets, only vast knowledge of the nature of man, and woman."

"Perhaps you do. Yet, you know nothing about love. When in love, one must know that the other will not always be as perfect as they would hope. Darkness is in all of us, and love is the only thing that allows us to accept it. How can you not see that flaws and mystery can make love more powerful?"

"Is that what you believe, or what you want to believe?" Raoul had no answer; he simply stared at his half-empty glass. The room had grown dark and cold despite the cheerful colors, the sun had forsaken their home, and all they had left were their thoughts. They were very black thoughts indeed.

"Sometimes sleepwalking is simply sleepwalking Philippe."

"Yes, it is. Yet the trauma that compels one to do it should be discussed by two people who claim to love one another so deeply. It is not simply your right to pry into your wife's mind, it is your duty. If you care for her, you will demand her confidence. It is the unfaithfulness of the mind, not the body, that causes love to die."

"What do you know of love Philippe, who have you loved?"

"It matters not who I have loved. What matters is that I understand it better than you do."

"Your outlook is grim."

"No, it is realistic. Find out what it is that has been torturing your young bride. If you do not, the answer might kill you both. I don't mean that in a literal sense either." Raoul sat down once more and rested his head upon his hand; his head was beginning to ache from the tension in the room. Perhaps undisclosed thoughts were dangerous, but he could not sense any danger for he and Christine. They had found each other after years of separation, and they had saved each other from certain death. The danger was long past, and he would not think of such things anymore.

"Why have you come here today, Philippe?"

"We need to go to Scotland for two weeks."

"Whatever for?" Raoul could not bear the thought of leaving Christine alone in the house; it was empty enough with just the two of them and their uncomfortably silent staff.

"Uncle Jean is considering financing a new theatre. He would like for me to look over the monetary aspects with him while you evaluate the property. This endeavor could make him a very wealthy man."

"He already is a wealthy man. I have no desire to look at another theatre as long as I live."

"If you do what I ask you will be benefited as well. You also need to put that opera ghost business behind you, 'tis time to move on, my boy."

"I will correspond with him religiously in regard to the endeavor. I really do not see a need to go to Scotland."

"Do not be stubborn, you have to show some interest in matters of business, it is your duty as a vicomte. Besides, if you are worried about your wife being alone just ask some of her old acquaintances if they wish to play temporary companion to her for a while. This house will be a vast improvement over their lodgings, they all shall jump at the chance like chits at an available duke on the marriage market."

"If I must." He had little else to say on the matter. It would be useless to refuse, and he had no real reason to decline, no reason that Philippe would accept at least.

"Good. We shall leave a week today. Take your wife to dinner, buy her some jewelry, perhaps a new gown, and make love as often as possible in the next few days. You won't feel guilty when you leave that way." Raoul nodded, no longer listening to the voice droning on in the background. His heart was seized with an urge that he could not identify. Part of him was screaming that leaving would be unwise, but he had always felt overly protective of Christine after the "incident." Perhaps a little time to himself would do him good, it would certainly be beneficial for Christine to see old friends again.

* * *

Raoul had the locks fashioned just as she had asked him. He seemed puzzled by her adamant request, but she knew it was the wisest decision to make. It would keep _him_ away from her, he could not simply walk into her home and invade it the same way he had invaded her mind and soul so many years ago. _The way he tried to invade her body last night._

She also knew that the locks were not simply to keep him from entering her home, they were to keep her from going outside once more. She had been so frightened by his rough hands and mouth, he had seemed like more of an animal then a man once he had her pinned beneath him. Raoul may have lacked passion and sensuality, but at least he was decent and civilized when it came to lovemaking. Her deceptive angel was, well, an animal! He was but a lion in desperate need of a mate, and his roars of dominance both enticed and repulsed her. No, repulse was not the correct word, his grunts had repelled her. His passion was too much for her; it had always been too much for her. Yet, her body ached to be touched by him, her skin literally trembled and shook beneath his hands. Even though her body screamed for his, her mind screamed in fear at the very thought of him touching her.

He was too powerful. She knew that to love him was to submit to him, and submission rotted the soul. Yet, when she saw his face and saw his pain, she yearned to hold him and let him cry out his hate and anger until all of the hurt was gone from his body. She wanted to let him pour his sins and his darkness into her so that he may walk without chains, if only for a moment. If she were to abandon herself to him she knew that she would scream out for him to take her, to show her ecstasy and passion like she had never felt before.

Earlier in the evening Raoul informed her of his business plans, and she felt a sharp pain in heart at the thought of him leaving her for so long. She would be alone with naught but her mind to keep her company, and who knows whether or not she would be strong enough to not allow the sinister impulses that would surely plague her to dictate her actions. She was a prisoner in her own mind, a slave to herself. Raoul had recommended that she ask Madame and Meg Giry to stay with her, and she had agreed, but still the thought brought her no comfort.

She looked out at the night sky, there were hardly any stars out this night. She had often loved to look at them as a child, yet once her father died she realized that there were far more pressing matters to concern oneself with other then tiny specks of light in the sky. Darkness had a new appeal; it called out to her, even though she tried to resist it. She had nearly succumbed to it once, and it had all felt so right, so beautiful. The first night had revealed himself to her as man and not a ghost, she had been enthralled. His lies were forgotten once he materialized before her. He was, after all, the man who gave her music and made her realize her dream. He was also the man who touched her soul, who shared with her a secret that no one else could ever understand.

When she saw him playing his organ early that morning so many months ago, her heart was nearly bursting with joy. He was so mysterious and dark, and so handsome despite that strange white mask. He was music personified, and she nearly giggled with girlish glee at the sight of him in his unbuttoned shirt, looking so calm and at peace with her sleeping in his bed. She looked at him and saw her teacher, her angel, and the man who could very well become her lover and maybe even her husband. They were so well suited, two lonely people who created music together.

She had only wished to see his whole face, to get rid of the barriers and secrets. Now that she knew was not an angel, but a man, she wanted to know all of him. She deserved to know all of him. Yet when she removed the mask, he turned into a monster. He threw her to the ground and screamed at her like a wild man in a drunken rage. He said such horrible things! She had honestly feared that he would strike her. Bracing herself for a blow, she remembered how no one, not even her father, had ever hit her before. The only time her father had ever laid a hand on her was when she was 5 years old and playing closer to the riverbank then was permitted and nearly fell in. He pulled her out of the mud by her arm and shook her violently, asking her emphatically if she knew what could have happened to her had not been there.

Later on that evening he had apologized for scaring her, but told her that sometimes when people became as scared as he was, they do and say things that they do not mean. His words remained with her, but they could not excuse the actions of her Phantom that morning. It had been that incident that forever hardened her against him. She feared him. Why that fear always gave way to longing she would never know.

She felt the sturdy lock on the door and sighed, he would never invade anything of hers ever again. Her reverie was interrupted when she looked down and noticed an ivory note at her feet. _No, it couldn't be. _Her heart leapt into her throat and it beat so frantically that she was sure it could be seen through her chest. A wash of disbelief coated her body and she closed her eyes, willing the paper at her feet to disappear. It didn't.

She picked up and read the messy black script.

_Dearest Christine,_

_My sincerest apologies for my abhorrent behaviour towards you last night. It was wrong of me to do what I did, and I can only hope that you can forgive me. I could not control myself at the sight of you, I never could. We need not muse about the past though; I only wish to speak of the future. _

_Firstly, the keys that you demanded be hidden are in the middle drawer of the Vicomte's desk in his study. No, the drawer is not locked. You must retrieve them and come outside, for I have preposition for you that you must hear. _

_You may be fearful of seeing me again, but I implore you, please do so. I shall not harm you; I shan't even touch you unless you give me permission to do so. I hope to see you this night, but I will not stoop to begging and pleading like a whipped dog. _

_Your obedient servant (and master),_

_The Angel of Music._

She ripped the note to tiny shards and planned to run back to her boudoir immediately. She would not, could not go outside and see him. Yet, the keys in the study called to her. She looked outside and saw his shadowed figure lurking in the darkness. His note was amiable, but he could not be trusted. If she relented and went outside, he could take her to wherever it was that he resided now and keep her his prisoner forever. He could take her and ravish her, forcing her to submit to her basest desires and be unfaithful to her husband.

She looked at him, and he at her. Perhaps she needed to hear him speak to her, to make his unknown preposition. He would never leave her alone now; he had found her once more. She walked from the door, letting her clammy fingers leave slowly fading stains as she pulled them from the glass. He stared after her, not knowing which room she was headed to, and not knowing whether or not his heart could handle it if she did not appear at the glass door once more with keys in her hand.


	9. The Widow's Kind Tutelage

**Black Angels**

**Chapter 9: The Widow's Kind Tutelage **

**A/N: I'm a very, very bad person. I know I left you with a cliffy, and that you are probably hoping to see what happens, BUT I am going to delay the outcome for one chapter. Before you get mad, let me promise you that you will like this chapter. Not only will it be very naughty, it will also have a great point and purpose. Oh, and it takes place right before the last chapter (as you know, I've got a thing for non-chronological story telling). This scene is quite necessary, and it's very r-rated (or "M" I guess). Enjoy it ladies (and gentlemen)! R N'R! **

**Erelda: I'm glad that you and your friends are enjoying the story; please feel free to translate it to Russian :). **

Rural life was not for precious skin or soft hands. Neither was living in a sewer, but after years of modifying and re-building his decrepit home, it took on the appearance of an elegant, albeit eccentric abode. It only made sense that his disposition began to mirror his surroundings and he lost touch with the torture that was physical discomfort and hardship. His backbreaking labor gave way to decorating and stylizing, and he overcompensated for his prior existence in a filthy metal cage by pilfering lush furniture and expensive linens. Materialism was not a crime of vanity; it was a necessity for relaxation of the mind. Sometimes.

After all of the pain, the anguish, and the rejection he had been through, it perturbed him to realize that he missed his possessions. In the loneliest moments in his life, he had those simple, unfeeling, yet strikingly beautiful things to look upon. Perhaps he could not share in their splendor, but they belonged to him and him alone. No one could take that away from him.

His new abode was coming along rather nicely. It would seem that he had not lost his architectural touch. He had taken up residence in a modestly sized farmhouse that was generously given to him by a kindly if not slightly skittish widow who lived in a much more impressive dwelling two miles up the road. As it turned out she owned all of the property after the passing of her husband, a Baronet more then twice her senior who enjoyed his solitude in his old age. She looked to be in her late 30's with long black hair and deep coffee brown eyes. Kind eyes.

As much as he doubted her when he first asked to purchase property and saw her eyes glow with undisguised curiosity, he could not deny that she possessed a good heart and a sharp mind. Indeed, it would seem that the gentle widow, Mrs. Sofia Renault, was quite perceptive and not the least bit daft. She had not questioned his mask, or his preference for meeting in the late hours of the evening under the cover of the ebony sky. Did she know of the stories and reports of the murderous opera ghost? He doubted it, and even if she did, she would not say anything to the authorities. Her eyes would betray her long before her words, and he would not hesitate to choke the life from her body should she even become suspicious of him. He would hate to have to leave two young children motherless, but he cared not for the struggles of others, he saw no reason to.

Sofia had often come by his home to ask him hpw he was settling in. At first he thought it to be nothing but concern and kindness, possibly even gratitude. There was no doubt in his mind that the widow was content with the income she derived from him. Politeness and consideration were rare virtues, and ones that were seldom presented to him. Her questions were often answered briskly, however, as he was not searching for friendship or pleasantries. A man on his a mission such as his had little time to return smiles and delight in idle chitchat.

The normally brief and insubstantial visits had started to become more frequent and extensive. He had received and rejected three invitations to dinner at her home, always making sure his refusal was amiable but solid. He did not belong at a family dinner table; it would be disconcerting and uncomfortable for her as well as him. Besides, he was well aware that he made poor company.

Despite his constant attempts at eluding his landlady, she remained undeterred. She often darkened his doorway in the early evening, asking him idly what he was up to and whether or not he needed company. She seemed to have accepted the mask and chose, wisely, to ignore it. That was a good decision on her part, for both their sakes. He would have been more then mildly annoyed by her persistence had she not been so endearingly good-natured.

Her good nature was beginning to take his thoughts down undesirable and dangerous terrain. She was an attractive woman, slender but slightly rounded and small in height. She was by no means a great beauty, but her exotic looks made her face memorable and pleasant to look upon. She had mentioned in passing that she was born in Italy, he did not bother to ask what part she hailed from. Her body was not slight or firm like Christine's, but her round and full breasts and strong legs were appealing enough. His draw towards her was not one of affection or companionate longing. No, he envisioned an erotic tryst that would not only satiate his desires, but prepare him for the ultimate seduction. The seduction of an angel.

His longing for Christine had been physical, but it had also been deep and soulful, so much so that it frightened him. He watched her grow into a woman and as much as he wanted to touch her and claim her body, he also wanted her to feel for him that yearning for complete and utter immersion into the other person. He wanted to be one with her, to share her thoughts and her dreams, to breathe when she would breathe, to die side by side with her once their time on the earth had come to an end. Yet, he was not immune to other fleeting desires here and there.

Often he would walk through the opera house and view the shapely dancers preparing for performances, rehearsing with their colleagues or alone. They had such surreal grace to their movements. He had read about salacious encounters in shamefully mediocre romance novels. He had read of French and East Asian thoughts on sex. He had even come upon a copy of the shock inducing Kama Sutra; he kept that one around for a while. It soon began to torture him, as he could not practice what he had seen, but he still could not find it in himself to burn it, as he sometimes wished to do. He was an inexperienced man, but he was not an uninformed one. Only fools were ignorant, of which he was neither.

He remembered how he would read about the various types of coital bliss and seriously consider taking an unsuspecting chorus girl. He had a large supply of narcotics capable of rendering anyone unconscious for a few hours, if he drugged one of the girls and had her body she would never know. When he was at his angriest and most desperate he had even once considered just taking any girl and having his way with her. No one would believe anyone if they said that they had been forced to lay with the opera ghost, too many believed him to be naught but a myth. Yet others did know of his existence, and he had not the heart to hurt a woman who had done nothing to him. He knew his thoughts were wrong and perverse, but still they would plague him. He was not one to be controlled by his body though, and he found ways to rid himself of his desire by means of his own hands. Yet he could not help but feel like a boy rather than a man. A man loved and pleasured women, and they in return loved to be pleasured by him. His raging thoughts of taking young women abated as he got older, but still he felt denied that one pinnacle of manhood that the world claimed all men deserved.

* * *

Sofia came up the hardened dirt walkway to the stranger's home. He had worked to make the house presentable and livable, but still it seemed dark, forbidding. If houses had traits, this one would be melancholy and bereft of any warmth or welcome. The light brown dirt flew about her skirts in the wind, leaving tiny marks that could easily be brushed away. The uneven walkway was abrasive and rough beneath the fine soles of her shoes.

The blowing wind worried her, she had carefully washed and styled her hair and knew that once it became tangled and messy it would look awful. She doubted that this man cared much about a lady's hair, but one could never be too sure of the thoughts and preferences of someone so quiet and broody.

She knocked on his wooden door, once, twice. It had been polished so that it looked almost new, the man did have a taste for luxury. She heard footsteps inside the home and quickly her heart began to race. It always did right before she saw him, so much so that sometimes she felt nervous enough to want to turn and run right before he presented himself to her. She did not have any type of love or affection for the dark stranger, but it had been so long since she had been able to enjoy the company of a man. Everyone needed company and compassion once in a while, especially when they spent so much time alone.

He opened the door and saw the smiling widow standing before him with a breadbasket and a bottle of wine in her hand. She grinned coyly and said that since he always refused invitations to join them for dinner, she thought she would take it upon herself to join him. She doubted he would have the gall to turn her away, that would imply that he had poor manners, which would be displeasing to say the least. Perhaps he would turn her away out of propriety, but men seldom did such a thing when they knew that their indiscretion would remain secret. Actually, men did not ever seem to care about whether or not gossips caught wind of their affairs, it was never their reputations that were at stake. A rogue could bed every woman in France and still mothers would pray that their daughters married him should he possess a great fortune. A woman who even kissed a gentleman unchaperoned would be shunned like the plague.

He looked at her and sighed inwardly, she obviously was choosing to ignore his standoffishness. No matter, he would oblige her this once. He was not angered by her persistence, but it was unsettling. No one had ever sought out his company with the exception of Madame Giry, and even then, they usually had something of a purposeful nature to discuss, especially after she became the ballet mistress. He was not sure what to say, what could they possibly talk about over a meal? He had nothing to say really, he had been so starved of human interaction all of his life that he had become a poor conversationalist to say the least. He stood back from the doorway to let her enter and shut the door behind her.

"Oh my! You've done such wonderful things with this house! I'm sorry to say that it was quite neglected for many years."

"That's fine." He had taken weeks trying to turn it into something livable, and he had succeeded, moderately. He could not help but smile with masculine pride at the fact that the woman found his home so lovely to behold. He was still human, and any man found joy in impressing a woman.

"I just think that we should talk a little more,it feelsas thoughyou're always by yourself."

"I am, but that seldom bothers me Madame." He looked at his interlaced fingers, unsure of what to say.

"Oh, call me Sofia, there is no need to be formal." They continued to make small talk as they drank the wine and ate the modest meal before them. She spoke of her late husband, their home, and her years in Italy then in France. She was married when she was 18 years old to a 42 year-old man, something which horrified her to no end prior to her nuptials. She claimed that he was an attractive man, but an eccentric one. She feared he would make her become the silent hermit that he was known for being, but was pleasantly surprised when he turned out to be a kind and good-hearted man who loved to read, attend opera, and spend time outdoors. She found the lifestyle a pleasant relief from her years as a debutante; there was no pressure to be proper or complacent with him.

He listened to her with mild interest. She was so very honest with him, who was almost a complete stranger. Perhaps she just needed to talk, or perhaps she was looking for something more. He had hoped not. Yet something in her eyes excited him, they would often gleam with rebellious glee when he would stand up or shift his body. She seemed to ignore his mask and focused on his mouth and chest when she spoke to him. Then it dawned on him, Sofia was indeed in need of male company, and she did not simply want to share meals with him and reminisce about her past. He was excited, and frightened. Oh, so very frightened. She was a woman of experience, he had none. What lay beneath his mask had denied him such things. He knew she had not said what her intentions were, but he knew. He had seen far too many lusty women wandering the halls of the opera house waiting for their lovers, he knew the look, the posture, the seductive narrowing of the eyes.

She had been licking her lips, running her hand across her collarbones, stroking the smooth column of her throat. Oh, he wanted this, yet he was unsure. He thought of politely informing her that he was about to retire. He could not lay with this woman. His heart was racing now, his entire body felt engulfed in uncomfortable heat, he could feel the sweat breaking out and moistening the skin on his back and chest. Perhaps he should have dressed more formally; as it were he was just in his shirtsleeves and a pair of form fitting trousers which he wore without anything underneath. My god, he sounded like a prudish spinster!

"I have done nothing but talk this evening, you must be so tired of me by now." She gently exclaimed, hoping that he would inform her that he was not tiring of her company at all. She had hoped that he wished to stop speaking though; she would rather do other things.Her thoughts were sinful, she knew, especially when she was still very much in love with her late husband, but she needed to feel the comforting and intimate touch of another. She had been feeling so…old.

"No, I'm not tired." He should have said that he was, he had planned to, but the words just did not come out. Perhaps he should allow her to stay, if he were to woe Christine he would need to be a good lover. The Don Juan whom he wished he were. Now that she had a taste of the marriage bed her innocent desires would be darker, more passionate, much like his own.

"Oh good. I must admit that it has been so long since I've been able to speak to someone and enjoy fine wine. Ever since my husband passed I have had such little time to socialize, there are so many things that I have missed dreadfully as of late." She hoped her hint would not go unheeded, but also hoped that it sounded innocent enough not to be misconstrued should the dark stranger become disgusted with her. How he could refuse her was beyond her though, he wore a mask that had to have been hiding something unsightly, no doubt it had denied him physical affection. She knew of the shallowness of people.

"What is that you have missed most?" No, he could not _possibly _have just said such a thing.

"I don't feel right saying it aloud Monsieur." She smiled at him shyly.

"You may call me Erik, and tell me, why is it that you have come here tonight?" He knew his voice was becoming husky, but the thought of all of that he had read about over the years, and of this willing woman, had his pants tightening uncomfortably and his mind racing with possibilities.

"Do you really need me to answer a question to which you undoubtedly know the answer?"

"Yes." He saw her golden skin turn a bright shade of pink at his request.

"I wish for…physical companionship. Tonight."

"Thank you for your honesty, and your boldness. Do you not know the risks of asking complete strangers to take you to bed?"

"I don't see you as dangerous." She lied, she did see him as dangerous, but she did not feel as though he would harm her. He stood up then and walked towards her. She looked at him with confidence, she knew what she was doing, and she had no shame or regrets. He admired that.

His hand grasped her shoulder firmly and he moved it upwards to caress her neck, letting his thumb tenderly stroke the soft skin of cheek. "I must warn you, I have not had many lovers." He had none, but she did not need to know that.

"Yes, I know." She boldly flicked her tongue against his thumb, sending a jolt of arousal down his spine.

"You do?" His voice remained a gruff whisper as he kneaded the flesh of her neck. Women had such beautiful necks.

"Your mask…"

"I ask that you not speak of it, and do not try to remove it." She had no intention of doing so, she had no desire to make him uncomfortable, nor had she any wish to see what was beneath it. It gave him an air of mystery anyways, she found it enticing.

"I will do no such thing." He believed her. No tiny female hands would pry the porcelain off of his face this night, and thank god for that. It would cut the promising evening woefully short.

She stood up and touched his unmasked cheek carefully, delighting in the rough masculine skin beneath her fingertips. He had full lips; his bottom one was ripe and sensual. She pressed her lips to his, gently at first, not willing to attack him like a wanton despite the fire burning in her lower belly. He parted his lips and began to kiss her; softly at first, unsure of whether or not she was enjoying herself. She pulled back and looked up at him, he was shaking; she could feel him shivering beneath her hands.

"Is something wrong Erik?" He was not taking the wild initiative expected of a man, especially a man as large and strong as he was.

"No. Yes. No. I am out of practice, that is all. I also know a woman whom I may lay with soon, one who I must satisfy. If I cannot satisfy you, I can do nothing for her either." His confession came as a shock to them both, he was sure that she would storm out of the house now, brutally rebuffed and angry that he would speak of another woman while kissing her. Yet she seemed to smile up at him, her mouth opening in a wide "O" of understanding. This mysterious stranger had a paramour who he longed for, and oddly enough, her heart burst with affection when she heard him say that he wanted to satisfy her. So few men cared for the satisfaction of the women that they bedded. Despite the salacious nature of their interaction, his beautiful statement touched her. Her husband was an attentive lover, but she knew that most of his friends and acquaintances were not. He had confided in her the discussions men had behind closed doors in smoky game rooms.

Oh, Erik, that's beautiful! I will help to…refresh your memory as to what satisfies a woman." He could not have been more shocked by her words, this woman was a saint. He did not believe in God, but if there was one, he had sent this woman to him.

She roughly grabbed his face, careful not to upset the mask, and pressed a hot, wet kiss to his mouth, prying his lips apart to let her tongue tangle with his. He responded with voraciousness. Frantically removing the pins from her ebony hair he ran his hands through it, letting it wrap itself around his fingers. Women needed to wear their hair down all of the time, it was so silky and smooth and sensuous spread wildly about their shoulders.

He wrapped his arms about her waist, pulling her into his body and pressing himself against her frame. She was soft and rounded, but still slight. He tried to remember everything that he read about, but his mind was a blur of sensation and disbelief.

She stepped back from him and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the bedroom. He followed, feeling nervousness wash over him once more. He felt like refusing, but knew that this was his one chance to attempt to practice his skills of seduction on a real woman; it would be imbecilic to turn her away now. She wanted him without him having to sing to her or play music, she wanted him because he was a man and for no other reason then that.

She sat upon his bed and motioned her him to join her. He sat down beside her and began kissing her once more. She pulled her lips away from his and tilted her head, exposing her neck to his mouth. He knew immediately what she was requesting and began to hungrily devour the smooth flesh of her throat. The feel of her pulse pounding beneath his lips had him burning with need. He needed more flesh to feast on, and letting pure animal need overwhelm him, he began to roughly pry the fabric of her dress apart. The buttons at the front were small, it would have been too tedious to begin undoing them one by one, and he found that one forceful tear separated the material quite efficiently. She gasped in shock and fisted a hand in his hair; the throbbing between her thighs began to escalate.

"Touch me." She groaned against him while letting her lips wander down his neck, suckling furiously at his skin. She helped him work the dress down her arms and off of her while she separated the front of his shirt and dragged if off of his body.

Sofia climbed into his lap and began to move against him while kissing him fiercely. The wet sounds of their lips and tongues colliding caressed his ears. It was a sound that was intoxicatingly sexual, a sound that only lovers could hear and not grimace at inwardly. That soft, wet sucking sound. She stood and sat down upon him once more, her back to him this time, and began grinding into him and pressing into his chest.

The laces at the back of corset called to his hands, and he began to unlace them, slowly and clumsily at first. He had always wanted to tear open a lady's corset, that forbidden undergarment that caged their soft and curvaceous bodies. Once that hateful garment was discarded she turned to face him once more and pressed her chemise-covered breast to his face. The scent was gorgeous, it was so distinctly feminine.

Courageously, he lifted one hand to caress the soft mound through the fabric. It felt wonderful, so heavy and full. He did not wish to squeeze it, but rather just held it, running his thumbs gently over the hardened nipple. When he touched Christine he was rough, it was though the hands touching her were not his. He had been so angered and distraught after seeing her that he had tried to take her like a wild beast. His clumsy hands had pulled up her clothing, and he just thrusted against her, trying to frighten her with his vicious ardor. He had not taken the time to explore her body; he had not the patience nor the restraint. His wild and inexperienced hands must have disgusted her.

"Yes." Sofia moaned out as he touched her, she reared up onto her knees to give him better access to her body. He took one hardened nipple into his mouth and sucked it gently through the fabric of her chemise. Her breasts were not as small and firm as Christine's, which he attributed to her having twice nursed babes. She moved away for but a moment to lift the chemise over her head and let it fall to the floor behind her. Her body was now only adorned with her drawers, garters, and stockings.

Her nipples were a dusky purple and much larger then Christine's; at least he was fairly sure they were. Christine's looked to be a light pink and rather small through the fabric of her nightgown. Sofia's body was soft and her hips and buttocks were full. Her body was not lithe like a dancer's, but it was still beautiful, and so very womanly.

She stood up and removed the remaining items until she stood completely bare before him. She did not care if he noticed her desire seeping out of her, she had wanted this, needed this for so long now. His eyes did not disappoint her, they were filled with longing. The tenting of his trousers also betrayed his lust, and the bulge she witnessed was certainly promising.

Sofia knelt between his spread thighs and undid the clasp on his trousers, exposing his erect manhood to her gaze. He lifted himself up off of the mattress to allow her to slide the trousers down his legs and pulled her into his lap once more, suckling her bare breasts and kneading the tight flesh of her shoulder blades. She arched her back and moaned out, letting her eyes drift closed as the waves of pleasure radiated throughout her body.

He stood up, her legs still about his waist, and laid her back fully on the bed and covered her body with his own. It felt so good to lie against a naked woman; this is what he wanted with Christine. He did not want to force himself upon her, fully clothed, on the moist, cold grass; he wanted to hold her against him with nothing between them. There was no feeling more exquisite then the feeling of nude skin upon nude skin. Nakedness was no longer about inferiority and vulnerability; it was about trust and intimacy. It was beautiful.

Erik kissed down her body, inhaling the sweet scent of perspiration as his tongue laved the tender skin between her breasts down towards her naval. She parted her legs invitingly, begging him silently to touch her with his mouth. Her request shocked him, but he had read of such things and knew it gave women immense pleasure. He looked at the dark triangle of hair and down to what lay between her thighs. It was slick from her juices.

He bent his head towards her core and began to lick around her entrance. She did not seem to be letting out the earth shattering moans that he anticipated. He felt her hand grasp his hair lightly and pull his head upwards. Raising his eyes, he noticed that her finger was touching a small pink nub that he had failed to notice earlier. Ah, he immediately knew what it was she wanted.

He let his tongue dart out and began to lap at the bud; he could feel it throbbing against his lips. He let his tongue roam around it, then sucked it gently between his lips. Her entire body began to tremble violently and her moans increased in intensity. Her back arched and her moans turned to soft, subtle screams. She yelled out to god, begging him to continue his delicious assault. He had to grip her hips to keep her from bucking upwards, but her voraciousness only excited him more.

Sofia finally had to beg him to stop, she felt her body convulsing and contracting as she released three years worth of celibacy in one soul searing, thunderous orgasm. She pulled him upwards and looked into the stormy depths of his green-blue eyes and pressed kisses all over his face, thanking him profusely as she did so. She wanted him to make love to her now, to release all of his tension and energy into her, to receive his final lesson in pleasing a woman in the most difficult way.

Erik waited for her to ask for him to enter her, he did not wish to take her while she shook so violently, but his entire body ached with insatiable need. Sofia reached down and grasped his manhood, her fingers skilled and pleasing. The size of it daunted her, it was larger then her husband's. She had birthed two six-pound babes though, even after three years of remaining untouched, she was sure she could accommodate him.

"Please go slowly." She whispered huskily in his ear as she guided him to her entrance. She did not fear conception; she had failed to conceive for the last eight years of her marriage. That did not surprise her, as her two pregnancies had both been rather difficult and perilous at times; the last one nearly claimed her life.

He moved within her, the slick lubrication making his passage easy and smooth. He never thought anything could feel so wonderful. He moved back and fourth over top of her, but noticed that she was not moaning out or screaming as she did when he loved her with his mouth.

"Stop thrusting, and rock against me." She spoke with encouragement and longing. He did as she asked, even though the pleasure was beginning to become too rapturous for him to contain himself. He rocked gently against her pelvis, making heated contact with her swollen bud, his member buried almost to the hilt inside of her warmth.

"Yes, yes, just like that." She rocked her hips against his and began that glorious moan that bordered on screaming. Could he make Christine scream for him like this? Once he felt her body begin to tremble as it had before, he picked up speed and thrust into her while she gripped his lower back and sucked his earlobe into her mouth. Within moments he had released, the sensation shaking his body to the very core.

They laid together, silently, each listening to the sound of the other's breathing.

"Your paramour is a fortunate woman." Sofia began to put on her discarded clothing, she felt completely and utterly satisfied.

"She may not think so." The thought of Christine both angered and excited him. He had something for her now; something the Vicomte could never give her.

His statement was filled with such deep sadness that Sofia could not help but reach out and stroke his cheek tenderly.

"Any woman would be lucky to have you in her bed." It was too bad that he not only wanted to warm her bed, but her heart and soul as well.


	10. The Fallen Angel's Return

**Ch 10: The Fallen Angel's Return**

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate it so much. On a side note, I have made a continuity error, a pretty big one at that. I said that Christine received the note to meet Erik outside the night after their first encounter, and then I inserted the Erik/Sofia encounter and said that it happened in between. There is obviously a time disagreement here, I apologize for it. Let's just say that there were a couple days between Erik and Christine's first encounter and this chapter. I'll be more careful next time, I promise!**

The study was much further then Christine remembered. The cool marble floor seemed to narrow and stretch as her bare feet slid across its smooth surface. She was careful not to make noise, yet she was sure that her breathing was echoing throughout the home, ticking the ears of her sleeping husband. Oh, sweet, innocent, unsuspecting Raoul. Her friend. Her confidante. Her Husband, the man to whom she promised herself to for all eternity. His eyes never darkened with suspicion, his face never contorted into an angry sneer at her minor transgressions. Why did he not heat her blood like he warmed her heart?

There was nothing but silence. It was heavy, reaching out to her in the darkness and condemning her. This was wrong, all of this was wrong. Her feet padding towards the study, the tremendous pounding of her heart, her shaking hands. All of it was immoral.

She had worked so hard to let him go, to push him from her mind. He was her captor. She wore invisible shackles connected to chains that only he held. She held his chains as well, and without knowing it, she pulled him towards her once more. Unlike her, he did not resist the wrenching hold on his body. He embraced it.

The house was dark, so dark. The air was frigid; it chilled her skin and made her fingers lose their dexterity as she opened the door to the study. It smelled of Raoul, that sweet scent of soap and clean linens. It was a subtle odor, inoffensive and comforting. It was unobtrusive, yet enveloping. Comforting, perhaps. Only now did it sting her nostrils with its familiarity, and she wished desperately for it to dissipate. It reminded her of who she had become, and who she really was.

The moon had disappeared behind the clouds, leaving the room in blackness. The white light that shone beneath the gauzy drapes disappeared. It drifted away from the brown Persian carpet, away from the mahogany floors, and into the night where it could never be seen again. There were sounds outside, soft whispers of predatory prowess. Perhaps there were wolves; she had never seen one before. Not the actual beast at least.

The second drawer loomed before her, begging her to open it. She felt something well up in her chest. It was excitement. The kind of excitement that shook her entire body. It trailed across her spine, leaving heat in its wake. Not the warm, comforting heat that came from the lingering scent of Raoul, a burning heat that was rough and urgent.

No. She pulled her hand away. No, she could not go to him. He would take her, he would. She knew him, and she did not trust him. He was dangerous, intoxicatingly so. _Do you want him to take you? _A voice inside of her spoke, mocking her futile resistance against her chains as they tightened around her, causing excitement rather then pain. No, there was pain, but it was not of a harmful nature. Not yet at least.

She turned away, her back to the desk, her hands behind her on the rough surface. Her chest heaved with exertion; her short walk to the study caused her body to tremor as it would had she run a mile. Her hand crept towards the drawer, gently feeling the icy cold brass handle against her sweating palm. It opened easily, the small silver key gleaming despite the lack of light illuminating it. Even in blackness it glittered. Temptation was always more beautiful then rationality.

Her hand held the key. If used, her life would change. Every door that she had closed, every wall she erected, every defense in her heart, would be opened and broken down once more.

"Am I to risk my life to live once more?" She whispered to herself, the broken sound of her voice sounding unfamiliar even to her. Her throat pained as she let free the words from her mouth, into the air, where they could never be withdrawn again. She had to know; she had to feel once more what it was like to want, to lust, to be caught in an intricate web of desire.

"I desire you." She nearly sobbed with silent revelation. She desired him, but she also hated him. How could one desire the one they loathed? How could one want the one person who twisted their innocent love into fear and hatred? Was it even possible to admire the person you pitied most?

* * *

She walked back towards the doorway. His silhouette appeared before her. It was cold and unfeeling to behold, stiff with anticipation. Yet a fire burned at its core, the feel of the flames heated her cool flesh and cast a deep red glow upon her pale features. Two souls of a different colour could join together as one.

He watched her come to the doorway after what seemed like an eternity of waiting. In those brief moments where she had forsaken him he had never felt so bereft. He had once again given her the choice to go to him willingly or turn her back on him forever. His heart died the first time, but his body remained strong. This time he felt weakness seep through him and threaten to bring him to his knees should she not return to him.

The key turned in the brass lock. He heard it, that click of metal against metal. No one ever paid attention to such meaningless noises, but to him it was awe-inspiring and more uplifting than any aria he had heard echoing throughout his home.

She looked so beautiful this night. She was no longer an innocent women, and the dusky rose coloured night shift clinging to her skin was seductive and alluring. This new angel stepped out of the shadows; she was familiar, yet so different. No longer the child he had seduced with music and memories, but a woman. He was now a man. A man with the prowess and virility to enrapture an angel.

Long ago she let him make her voice his instrument, his one way to touch the world of those who scorned him. Now her body would be his to play as well, and he would stroke it with skill and patience. Once she gave him her body, he would possess her soul completely. Instruments yielded to the desires of the fingers that touched them, a body was no different. If touched and stroked as it wished to be, it made beautiful music, never becoming disloyal to its master.

"Your preposition?" Her deep brown eyes met his stormy blue ones. She was afraid to be close to him. She was afraid that he would touch her.

"Why have you chosen to come outside?" His voice remained formal.

"It would be rude not to." He laughed then, a clipped, unfamiliar sound bursting from his lungs.

"Propriety is it then? Politeness? I would have thought it improper for a married woman – a married noblewoman – to come out to greet a strange man in the dead of night in nothing but transparent garments." His eyes roamed her body hungrily. He was trying to frighten her.

"I will not respond to your intimidation and your petulance." He was taken back, she had never questioned him or reprimanded him before. She had told him she hated him, but never had she spoken to him with such condescension and confidence in her tone.

"You used to be far more co-operative."

"I used to be ignorant and submissive." Her tone hardened. She was a strong angel now. He had to fight the urge to relinquish his hardened façade, fall at her feet, and simply say, "I love you, please return to me." No, he would never show her such weakness. Not ever, ever again.

"I have not come here to argue with you or dwell upon the past. I have come to ask your forgiveness for my…ardor during our last meeting. I also have something to ask of you."

"Are you truly sorry for what you have done?"

"I said in the letter that I would not plead or beg." Annoyance crept into his tone. If she wanted him to beg, he might just do it.

"What you did was inappropriate and ungentlemanly." She knew her wording made the transgression sound much smaller then it was. It was as though she was scolding him for patting her behind or stealing a kiss during a waltz. Not as though he exposed half her naked body and threw her to the ground and pinned her beneath his body. Kissing and touching her in ways no woman should allow a man not her husband to touch her.

"Yes, it was. I am sorry for frightening you."

"Are you sorry for touching me?"

"No." He would not lie, he was not sorry for touching her. He wanted nothing more then to touch her, and for her to touch him.

His response caused a delightful chill to envelop her body. Her body's reaction disgusted her.

"You're an animal."

"All humans are animals, yourself included." He had seen animalism at its worst. He had been whipped, caged, exploited, and beaten by emotionless, passionless, uncivilized beasts. Men, women, children. All of them were creatures.

"Your pain does not excuse your actions." Her statement shocked them both. There was such honesty in her words; she would no longer allow him to be her master. No longer would she excuse him without a second thought because she was indebted to him.

"You know nothing of my pain!" She flinched at his guttural snarl.

"Yes I do. You've poured all of it into me." The white and black souls that had entwined long ago continued to suck each other dry. There were no more pretenses anymore. She had said it, she had admitted to herself and to him that she had never forgotten, could not forget, her fallen angel.

He reached out to grasp her hand, but she pulled it backwards as though his skin would burn her. Her mind dissipated into nothingness whenever he touched her. He said more with a fleeting caress then Raoul could say when he was buried deep inside of her.

"What is it that you wish to propose?" Her eyes burned with unshed tears.

"You husband is leaving you for a fortnight, is he not?" Dear god! She only found out yesterday, how had he known? She did not want to know.

"Yes."

"Spend the two weeks with me and I shall never again attempt to see you." Her mouth fell open in shock. She had expected him to ask for her body. She would not have given it to him, but that request would have been quite mild next to his preposterous suggestion!

'Two weeks! No, I could never…have you any idea the scandal that would ensue if I let a man remain here in the absence of my husband?" What a ridiculous preposition, how dare he even think such a thing!

"I will not be staying here, you shall be staying with me. I have found a new home, for the time being."

"Why would you ever even think that I would agree to something so improper?"

"Because you want to."

Silence. Deafening, imprisoning silence. Did she?

"You know nothing about what I want." Her silent reply stunned him and stopped his heart. Had he misjudged her? Had he thought she had an affinity for him that did not really exist simply because he wanted it to?

"What do you want?"

"Peace. I told you that before, have you forgotten?"

"I will give you peace if you give me peace. I will feel peace if you remain with me for two weeks, and you will feel peace once those weeks are over. Forever."

"You will take me." Her ragged breath came out in started gasps. Her innocent fantasies and sinful dreams were becoming too real; she was not ready to accept them. She was not prepared for this, she would never be prepared.

"Do you mean that I shall take you away from your husband, or do you mean that I shall take your body?"

"You will attempt both." He would.

"You will resist me." She would.

"Will you stop if I ask?" He would.

"Will you tell me to stop?" She would.

"Please, promise you will not touch me." Her broken response tore at his heart. She did not trust herself. She did not trust him.

"I will not touch you until you ask me to." When she did, she would be his. He would be hers.

"How will we ever get away with something like this?" Her words burned her throat; her mind screamed at her for being so weak and pliant.

"You will say that you are staying with Madame Giry, she will keep our secret safe."

_Secrets are never safe. _

"If I do this, will you leave me be?"

"You have my word." Did words mean anything when there was no one there to hear them?

"Do you promise to remain a gentleman?"

"Yes." _No._

"Do you promise to stay with me, Christine?"

"Yes." _Yes. For peace, she would be his. _

"Thank you." For two weeks she would his instrument. He would cherish her, coach her, and make her limber and weak beneath his hands. She would remember her angel, her teacher, _and her dark lover. _


	11. Strange Farewells

**Chapter 11: The Strange Farewells**

**A/N: Thank you so much for all of your reviews, they are extremely encouraging. I have to apologize in advance for the little mention of Erik in this chapter. Don't worry; soon there will be more then enough of him for your reading pleasure!**

Antoinette Giry's home was modest to say the least. The area surrounding it was filled with the sounds of life; talking, laughter, and horse hooves. The Parisian streets were always alive, never sleeping or even drifting into comfortable silence. There were always shrieks, curses, and emphatic exclamations fluttering in the air, coming in through the thin walls and creating an air of either annoyance or amusement depending on the mood of the unwilling eavesdropper.

She took comfort in the bustle of everyday life. There was always excitement and drama outside of her plain beige walls. The shrill voices carried with them memories of a different life, one destroyed by events beyond the control of anyone, no matter how strong or powerful. No one was powerful enough to stand in the way of obsessive love, not even the one consumed by the fatal emotion. Especially not the one consumed.

Odd how such grave misfortune could come out of something that seemed so innocent and beautiful. To be touched in the darkest parts of ones withered heart was a gift, or she once thought it was. As it were, the gift quickly turned to something malicious and poisonous when the withered heart could not take the pain that accompanied the volatile longing. Such a deep misfortune was one that destroyed the heart of a tortured man. What was worse, his misfortune ruined the lives of many.

She still had motherly affection for that bruised and beaten boy, but she felt deep resentment for that bitter and broken man.

Antoinette stirred her tea thoughtfully. Long ago the heated steam rising from the china mug had disappeared, the pleasant heat no longer warming her chilled fingers. The liquid no longer seemed comforting, she pushed it away. It may have been a waste of time and sugar, but such trivial things required little concern.

Footsteps pounded the ceiling. It would seem that someone was walking around with their boots on upstairs. Probably Klaus, the young Swedish behemoth who lived upstairs with his tiny French wife Marie. He easily stood more a foot and half above her, and his shoulders were as wide as three of her standing side by side. They seemed a pleasant enough couple, and helpful people at that. They had helped her and Meg move in their belongings after the disaster. They offered condolences and asked countless questions about the rampant rumors. Everyone did. She and Meg had grown weary of answering the same questions over and over again. Next time someone asked her about the "Opera Ghost" she would surely scream. His story was mere entertainment for these people, gossipy fodder for good laughs and twisted tales.

A slight knock on the door woke her from her morbid thoughts. Pouring the tea into the washbasin, she walked to the door and opened it slightly.

"Madame Giry!" Christine stood in the doorway in a gorgeous blue muslin dress. Simple and practical, yet stunning. Wealth looked wonderful on her, she did not appear smug or snooty, but rather refined and radiant in the delicate fabric.

"Christine!" The two women embraced warmly once inside the room, the door shutting softly behind them. It had been so long since Christine had felt the warm and loving embrace of a familial nature. The touch of a woman was so different from that of a man. She felt like a child once more, wrapped in the maternal arms of her former guardian and friend. There was no lust or desire to quicken her heart, no sense of unsure affection, just the safe and compassionate love of another human being.

"Please, sit down." Christine pulled out a chair and sat across from Madame Giry.

"How are you? How is Meg? Is she out?"

"I'm fine, as is Meg, and yes, she is out at the moment. She has gone to do some shopping, I expect her back soon."

"I'll have to wait until she comes then, I have not seen her since the wedding." Ah yes, the wedding. It broke Antoinette's heart to see someone as innocent as Christine receive such vicious scorn from haughty aristocrats on what should have been one of the happiest days of her life.

"Are you doing any shopping today?" Madame Giry asked.

"Yes, well, somewhat. I came here to see you; it is far too quiet in my house. Raoul has gone to Philippe's townhouse for the day. I need to spend some time with friends, I cannot stay in a house with one person forever."Not even the staff bothered to speak to her. She looked down at her hands and nervously shifted her body in the stiff wooden chair.

"No, loneliness rots the soul." Antoinette did not realize the prophetic nature of her statement before it erupted from her mouth and caused the air to thicken with dark reflection. Both of them knew too well the consequences of solitude. Both them knew the man who showed them. Neither of them was willing to speak of him just yet.

"Yes, I suppose it does." Christine watched as the stern ballet mistress began to boil water.

"Would you like some tea?"

"Yes." Silence. Memories would not fade so easily, it would seem.

"How is married life?" Antoinette did not mean for the question to contain sexual implications, but it did. Christine giggled nervously and smiled childishly. Marriage was comforting and secure, but the bedroom promised little passion.

"Oh, it's wonderful. I never thought, during all of the years of swimming in the sea and having picnics with Raoul that we would ever end up husband and wife."

"Life will never fail to surprise you in strange and pleasant ways." Or not so pleasant ways.

Christine needed to tell someone of her deal with the Phantom. The Phantom? Did he even have a name? She did not know his name! She was going to spend two weeks in a house with a man who kidnapped her, murdered in front of her, and lied and deceived her, and she did not even know his name! It would seem that justlike this "Phantom," time had slipped by and stolen her sanity as well.

"Madame, is it improper to spend time with a male friend while married?"

"Well, it depends how the time is spent. If a gentlemen were to accompany you to dinner or the theatre with other guests present, and see you off at your home afterwards, I see nothing wrong with a friendship." What an odd question, she thought to herself.

"So it is proper to have gentlemen friends other then one's husband?" Yes, the Phantom would be her friend, a friend in need of company to help him heal his fatal wounds.

_His toucheswere not those of a friend… _

"Why, I suppose so. As long as one's husband does not disapprove." Antoinette looked up at the stormy brown eyes of her surrogate daughter. There was something in her voice that frightened her. A dangerous uncertainty.

"I have an old friend, you see. A man I have not seen in many months. He wants to spend some time with me while Raoul is in Scotland."

"My dear, I would not trust a man who only wishes to visit you in the absence of your husband. He no doubt has wicked intentions." Who could this man be? Christine had no close male acquaintances at the opera house. Surely she knew that any man, not matter how trustworthy he seemed, was to be avoided if he were to make such a bold suggestion as seeking her company when her husband was out of the country. What man could possibly make such a bold request, what man would dare compromise a noblewoman's integrity? Was Christine dense enough to believe that this man, whoever he was, had honest intentions?

"He has no wicked intentions, he simply wants my company, and he does not get along well with Raoul." Now Christine stared solemnly into her lap, refusing to meet the eyes of the woman she trusted most. Her heart thundered in her chest and she felt her lungs constrict with the truth that threatened to burst out of her. She needed to tell someone of her plight, but if her secret was uncovered she could no longer shield herself with false propriety, she would be exposed for her weaknesses and her stupidity. Not even the woman she considered a mother would defend her, no one would.

"Christine, who is this man?" No, it _couldn't _be who she thought it was. He was gone; he no longer lived in Paris. He had told her himself that he would gone forever, far from the pain of the memories that haunted him. He nearly broke down her door with this vicious knocks that dark night several weeks ago. He had been frantic, telling her that he was so glad she was unhurt, but that he would never see her again, but that he loved her for all she had done for him, and he was sorry, so very, very sorry. She was sure the police would show up at any moment and take the wild fugitive away; he was so out of control with anguish

She had let him inside where he ranted and raved like a true lunatic. She was just happy he was alive. Despite her hatred for him, she still cared for him. A troublesome contradiction. He had said that he would find Christine and have her back with him, but he was so disoriented and drunk off of whisky and depression that she dismissed his crazed ravings. He was disheveled and confused, his threats were empty. They had to be. He left that night, disappearing into the darkness to which he had grown so accustomed with barely a sound. The fact that no neighbors ran to her door asking who the drunken fool was made her believe that he must truly be a ghost.

"You know him, Madame, I will tell you no more then that." Her nearly stopped. Her china cup rattled, her hand had begun to shake.

"My child, please tell me what trouble has befallen you!" She grasped Christine's cold hands in her own. They seemed lifeless.

"I have to spend two weeks with him, I have to. He promises he will leave me alone if I do. I have to do this, please, please understand." Tears began to stream down her cheeks, reddening the radiant pale skin.

"You do not have to do anything, he cannot make you do this!" Disgust swept over Antoinette. Who did he think he was? She had worried when he first began to take a shine to Christine, but she figured it was simply a boyish crush. When it began to intensify she feared that he might hurt Christine in the way that a man can hurt a woman without raising his hand to her. Surely he had manly urges; surely he longed to relieve himself. Yet, his attraction to her seemed deep, soulful. She began to hope that they would come together and she would love him despite his face. They were two souls who lived with such loss and loneliness; they could have saved one another.

Did he now intend to punish Christine for rightfully refusing him? Was he going to force her to lie with him to satiate his needs and humiliate her? Regardless of his superior size and strength, if he were standing before her right now she would slap those evil thoughts right out of him.

"I know that he should not be doing this, but he is. I have agreed to spend time with him, as his friend and companion in Raoul's absence. He has promised not to touch me in any way."

"Why would you ever agree to this?" Something was certainly wrong with this girl!

"Because if I do this he will leave Raoul and I alone. Raoul will never know about this."

"When a wife hides her 'friendship' with a man from her husband it is because she feels as though there is something that must be hidden, something not even she is willing to admit is there, not even to herself."

"You know how Raoul would feel about this. You know of the past. I have nothing to hide in regards to my faithfulness to my husband."

"Sometimes, Christine, an affair of the mind is just as destructive as an affair of the body."

"I am doing this for Raoul!" Her anger began to build now, what was Madame Giry accusing her of?

"Do not lie to yourself! You could call the police, move back to England, or simply outright refuse his ridiculous offer! Yet you do not, you are not doing this to save Raoul, or keep peace, you do this because you want to."

"I have to." The tears flowed freely now; her slight body began to tremble again. She did this because she was being forced to, because it was the only way to free herself from him. She did this because she loved Raoul.

"No, my dear, you do not. You do this because you desire him." Christine's mouth dropped open, her tears turning from those of sadness to those of indignation.

"I desire only my husband!" She stood up then, retrieving her cloak and wrapping it around her shaking body.

"We saw you on stage that night. Your desire was plain and obvious. If you go to him you will never escape him."

"I am not in love with him, Madame Giry." She kept her back turned, away from the honest eyes of her former guardian.

"There are different kinds of love, my dear. What you feel may not be love, certainly you do not harbor romantic fantasies for him. What you feel is desire for him, desire for his body and his mind. You are not so different, you and he."

"I will not betray my husband!" She wiped her face hurriedly, sniffing back tears as she did so.

"Sweet child, you already have." Christine looked back at her, her eyes filled with heart wrenching sadness.

"Please, tell everyone that I am staying with you for the two weeks, should they ask."

"I do not like being dishonest."

"Please." Her plea was so broken, so desperate.

"I will protect you, but I beg of you, please do not let him take you."

"He promised not to touch me, I made him promise."

"I do not mean physically, I am talking about your spirit."

"My spirit belongs to myself, and I share it with my husband, no one else." With that she walked from the room, gently closing the door behind her. She was not angry with Madame Giry. No, she was frightened by her words.

Antoinette watched the door close; the sound of it sealing shut would forever be embedded in her conscience. She should go to Raoul, but somehow she not bring herself to betray the girl she mothered and the boy she saved all those years ago.

The door to the apartment opened softly and Meg came into the room, her arms filled with two large bags and a small parcel under her arm.

"Maman, you received a letter!" Meg placed the heavy bags on the table and pushed loose strands of golden blonde hair out of her face.

"Thank you." She took the letter and stared at the shapeless red wax seal. Ripping open the envelope she stared at the familiar childish script. The lopsided handwriting that had plagued so many. The letter was direct, it simply asked that she keep he and Christine's "secret" safe. Much to her disdain, she knew that she would do just that.

* * *

Raoul looked up at Christine as she pressed herself into him. This was the third time they had made love; it was filled with an awkwardness that was achingly endearing. She moved to lie beside him, resting her hand upon his chest and nestling her head on his shoulder.

"You know I love you so much." She whispered as she pressed a sweet kiss to his cheek.

"I love you too."

"No Raoul, I love you so much it hurts."

"Love should not be painful, Lotte."

"Oh, but it is. Every second of everyday it hurts, but I would never trade it for the world." Love was indeed about pain.

"Well, the pain is worth the love, is it not?"

"Yes, of course it is." Did all couples lie together and speak of love so freely? She wondered if they did, it would be a shame if they did not.

"I'll bring you something back from Scotland."

"Oh, you don't have to."

"Of course I do, I would be a terrible beast of a husband if I did not. Deep down, you would never forgive me if I returned home empty handed. You would think that I did not think of on you on my travels, and I will be thinking of you constantly." He wrapped her in his arms, enjoying the feel of the rise and fall of her chest against his.

"You know that isn't true."

"Regardless, I will bring you home a most magnificent surprise!"

"Raoul?"

"Yes?"

"You know that I really do love you, right?" She seemed forlorn, troubled almost. It must be common for young wives to worry about their husbands when they left them for the first time.

"Christine, I shall only be gone two weeks!" He chuckled boyishly.

"It will be the longest fortnight of all time."

"Before you know it, I shall be back baring gifts and we can talk for hours and hours in this very bed."

"Yes. I would like that."

As they drifted into sleep, Christine wondered if his return would truly be as blissful as both wanted it to be.

* * *

"You need to be careful with me, I am an old man." Erik rolled onto his back, his hands behind his head, a sly grin of satisfaction causing his lips to turn upwards in a sensuous smirk.

"I am older than you." Sofia wrapped the cotton sheet around herself as she stood to retrieve her clothing. This would be her last night with Erik for a while, his lover was coming soon. This disappointed her; she had come to like the feeling of a warm body next to her. Yet the brooding stranger had a past with this woman, a dark one that she dared not intrude on. She felt such a decision would be unwise.

"You do not look old." She didn't, she had the energy of a woman half her age.

"I am 38 years old." She smiled at him and threw the sheet at his naked body, he caught and let it rest upon his chest and upper-thighs.

"You are older than me." He had spent three rapturous nights engaged in coital tutelage. He needed the tiresome training, he needed the release. Yet whenever he looked at the body beneath him he could not help but envision Christine with her nude skin soaked in sweat and her dark curls spread out over the pillow. Moaning out his name in that angelic voice. Soon enough, that would happen. He hoped. He prayed.

"How old are you?"

"I am 35." At least he thought so, he stopped counting years ago, age was not important when there was no one with whom to celebrate birthdays. Either way, he was roughly accurate.

"I am a devilish sinner, taking a younger lover!" She leaned down and kissed him, a rough, wet kiss.

"Indeed." Don Juan had many lovers, both young and old. Yet he never found love. He never knew someone like Christine, an angel who could tame even the wildest of hearts.

Sofia stepped out and went to her waiting mare, ready to ride back home. Her expertise had awakened in him a desire he never thought possible. Armed with the skills of a decent lover, he would embellish upon he and Christine's lustful attraction and make her succumb to him. She would scream and sweat and move wildly beneath him, he would make love to her body the same way he would to her spirit and soul. He would make her admit that she wanted him, that she dreamed of him, breathed for him, longed for him. She would beg him to touch her, and he would, awakening in her sensations that she only felt in her dreams.

_Please, please let her want me as I want her._


	12. Old Feelings, New Beginnings

**Chapter 12: Old Feelings, New Beginnings**

**A/N: Thanks again for all of your reviews, you have no idea how much I appreciate them. You all deserve gold star stickers! These past two weeks have been filled with Phantomy goodness. I won a copy of "Phantom" by Susan Kay on ebay and I am almost finished it now, and I got the 2-Disc DVD on Friday. Yup, a full 4 days before the release date hehe! I think I might incorporate some minor Kay-verse into the fic eventually; it's an excellent book. My only qualm is her half-assed writing of Christine; she's far too submissive and mindless for my liking. Erik is a tyrant as well; I'm not feeling the love. Other then that, the rest of the book is phenomenal and I'll try to include certain aspects of it in time.**

**To Countess Alana: Yes, Erik is very much in love with Christine. I want to expand upon the more erotic aspects of their relationship because I believe that her connection to him in the film was very much a sexual one. He was the man who awakened in her sexual desire, and I think that the smoldering lust between them is a prominent prelude to the formation of romantic love.**

Raoul loaded his modestly sized baggage into the back of the awaiting carriage. It was true; he was really leaving for a fortnight. At this moment Christine could still look upon him, and as long as he stood before her, she would not yet have to make the perilous journey to the darkest depths of her soul. When Raoul stood before her in his elegant navy blue waistcoat and silk trousers, looking the very pinnacle of civil humanity, she need not focus on the other man who lurked in the shadows of her mind. She did not have to think about herself and the weeks of reckoning that lay before her. Right now there was only she and Raoul, a common couple bidding one another adieu with moist eyes and whispered endearments.

How blissful it would be to be without secrets or lies, she thought to herself. If only she could be simply wishing her husband well on his journey and planning a much desired visit to old friends. How easy it would be to live a life such as that, one so unburdened by darkness and deceit. Fate had plans for her that were far different then those that she wished for.

She hugged Raoul close to her, taking in the smell of his hair and skin, letting the soapy and fresh scent comfort her. Smells always brought with them so many memories. Nothing brought one back in time like the smell of a parent's old cologne, or the musty odor of a former home. When she was a child she would often smell the red silk scarf that Raoul dived into the sea to retrieve for her. The scarlet silk had lost its smoothness and flawless texture, but it absorbed memories of a different life that she need only lift to her nose to experience once more. The salty air, the cool wind, her father's violin, the bread and cheese lunches in the musty attic.

Those days of innocence were over. She was no longer a child, and was quite glad of it. Children were impressionable and easily deceived. They were far too idealistic and imaginative; she could only wish that she abandoned childish fantasies long before they consumed her. Perhaps if she had let her mind grow along with her body she would not have believed in angels. Perhaps if she had been womanly enough to accept that death and loss came without reprieve or spiritual comforts she would not be standing here letting her thoughts become so morose.

"Take care, my love. I shall be back before you know it, and you will a wonderful time with Meg!" Raoul kissed her lips lightly, his comforting smile reaching his eyes.

"Yes, I shall try." There would be no sin more deplorable then that of having a wonderful time in his absence. What lay ahead was a dutiful mission, not a pleasurable one.

Philippe walked over to the embracing couple and laid his hand upon his brothers shoulder.

"Come, we must be off. 'Tis a long journey ahead, we don't want to lose anytime reaching the harbor." They were not at all pressed for time, but the melodramatic display was wearying him.

"You behave yourself." Philippe gestured good-naturedly to Christine and smiled shallowly. His remark was meant in jest, but the seriousness in his eyes and the grim expression on his face that thinned his lips and furrowed his brow expressed the seriousness behind his seemingly harmless bantering. She most certainly did not appreciate his disguised scorn! She hoped that Raoul would not become so stern and stoic in his old age.

"Oh, Philippe, I always do." She gave him the same false smile as he sauntered back to the carriage. Her embittered reply was not lost on him, but he was not concerned. She may have become angered over his condescension, but if she needed to be warned of consequence like a child he would do so, he did not trust her judgment. She was still a frivolous girl, not yet a lady of refinement. If he had to be the one to remind her of her place he would do so, obviously his brother had not the heart to do it himself.

After another tearful embrace Raoul climbed into the carriage and waved to his wife. He hated leaving her so soon, but he had no worries about her safety. The man who tried to take it from them was gone, and they were free to live their lives once more.

* * *

Christine had never wished to be able to control the setting of the sun as much as she did this night. She had longed to control entities beyond her understanding many times. How many nights had she lain awake wishing for the ability to bring the dead back to life and rid her life of unpleasantness? She wanted so badly to turn back time, to live once again under the protective eye of her father. She cried for him each and every night in the opera house. She wished for the angel that he had promised her, and when he finally came she let go of her logic and skepticism and believed him when he said that he would give her a life that rivaled that of a queen.

Oh, the promises he made to her, no small child could ever turn him away! He told her that she would be loved and protected always, that her father would live through him, that she would become a great singer and a star overnight. It was too bad that his gifts came at a price. A price she was still paying at this very moment.

Despite her silent prayers for more daylight the sun set as it always did, leaving the sky a deep blue and darkening the room in which she sat silently, awaiting her "friend."

_A friend indeed!_

_A friend with no name… _

She looked outside as rain began to pour from the ominous black clouds hovering above the house. They left uneven streaks down the window, casting silvery silhouettes upon the walls, moving and descending downwards like a river. She watched the reflection of the rain dance across her pale hands; nature could create the most beautiful illusions at even the worst of times.

Stepping away from the glass she gathered her belongings. She was not sure whether or not she would be returning home during the next fortnight so she thought it was best to pack as much as she could to sustain herself. The clothing alone took up two large bags. Another was for her toiletries, she found nothing more luxurious and relaxing than rose scented soaps and oils. To indulge in them may have been vain, but the lovely bottles were both pleasing to the eye and the touch. They were both useful and decorative.

She considered bringing books and some stationary, but she could not think of anyone to whom she would writer a letter. She could write to Madame Giry, but the chance of her receiving the letter during her stay with her…_nameless acquaintance_, was slight. Besides, should she need to pen a missive he would surely have the materials necessary to do so.

He would have books and such; she knew that they could not possibly spend every moment together talking. They had rarely had a conversation before. All of their face-to-face encounters involved intense dramatics and heartbreak, sometimes lustful caresses.

The rain continued to pour down and the sound of the drops hitting the roof brought nothing but annoyance. It had rained on her wedding day as well. Must the heavens always turn memorable experiences into ugly events by painting the skies gray?

* * *

He stepped up to the mansion and let out a sigh. The beauty of the home was breathtaking. If he ever had the means to build his own house above ground, he would want it to look somewhat like this. The balcony in the front was the only unsightly part of the home. The stark white of the flawless wood drew the eye away from the soft earth tones of the stone. It made an authentic and historical home look too modern. If anything, balconies belonged in the back of a house.

Tonight she would come to him once more. Whether it be out of want or duty he did not care. He was once again going to share his home with her. This time he would not sit about idly awaiting for her to awaken, looking at her longingly as she slept. No. This time, she would learn to see and feel his passion, to desire it.

Yes. He would make her weak with desire. If he could express his passion for her in words, if he could control his raging emotions and curb his obsessive need for her heart, he would show her all of the love in the world with his body. She would soon come to love his soul as he loved hers.

She saw him walking towards her once more as she stood at the window. He seemed to be running, not out of urgency but rather out of a desire to get out of the rain. She never figured one as mystical as he could ever be bothered by something as simple as water, but the way he huddled beneath his cloak with his face twisted into a grimace of discomfort nearly made her giggle. If she had not felt such trepidation in her heart she would have at least smiled at the sight before her.

Without any gentlemanly restraint he pounded fiercely on the French door, nearly shattering the glass in his frantic need to get out of the rain. Shaking her head in disbelief at the sight before her, Christine unlocked the door and was nearly flattened against the far wall when he flung it open with astonishing might.

"It would seem that these clothes are now ruined!" Always a great lover of beauty, he retained expensive taste in clothes in spite of the fact that he never wanted to be seen. If one could not be beautiful, they at least deserved beautiful things.

"Is there no end to your temperamental musings?" There was nothing good-natured about this man. His dark and stern demeanor had been both a savior and tormentor to her during her singing lessons, it would seem that certain things could never change. Perhaps she had expected his releasing her all those months ago to have softened him. She had shown him compassion, he had shown her humility, and in a moment everything in both their lives had changed. Was it too much to hope that the dark man had even a trace of the remorse and good conscience that she thought she gifted him with after their kiss?

"You saw me approaching and still you made no move to open the door! I was not about to bow and curtsy in the blistering cold and drown in the deluge while you looked on from the comfort of your heated home!" He had not meant to sound so harsh, but he could not help himself. She was attempting to punish him still for putting her in this position, and he would not stand for such ill treatment.

"Let us go." She turned away and began to carry forth her bags. There were three of them, all quite large.

"Are we traveling to Africa?" How could one woman with such a small body require so much clothing and grooming materials?

"I was not sure I would be able to come back should I forget something."

"Well, it would not be wise, no. The servants might become suspicious."

"I agree, hence I need to bring all of this tonight." She did not meet his eyes when she spoke. She felt deeply uncomfortable, so much so that it was as though she was not in possession of her body. It moved mechanically and without the consent of her mind. When they arrived at his home what would occur? Would he turn into that lecherous monster that once tried to imprison her forever in his opulent tomb? Would he come that seductive man with music and beauty running through his veins and drawing her into his world of soul searing splendor? Would they live with one another in silence, him simply basking in his triumph of being able to make her his with a snap of his leather clad fingers?

Did he want her with him to rectify the damage done to their lives at the hands of one another? Perhaps since he loved her so deeply he needed to know that she had truly forgiven him. Yet a part of her knew that his spirit was unconquerable and relentless, he must have wanted to take her and possess her once more. She had asked him if that was his intention before, he simply said that he would do only what she asked of him.

_Did she believe him? Lies can never be known to one who wishes to believe them to be the truth…_

He carried her bags outside and with a grunt of annoyance, trudged through the muddy grass and hauled the bags into the awaiting cab. She came out behind him, wrapping her cloak tightly around her body and pressing her chin into her chest to avoid the freezing cold droplets that splashed her face. The howling wind made it nearly impossible.

Once inside the cap she took of her soaked cloak and sank back into the seat, sighing heavily. She watched as her house sank further and further in the distance, the safe haven no longer within her grasp. It was the home made by her and Raoul, a home that contained their innocent and pure love. It proudly displayed the unity of its owners; it hid no secrets or treacherous lies. All of her life had been consumed by deceit and heartbreak; it was a vicious cycle that she was powerless to escape.

"You shouldn't keep your cloak on, you will get sick." Her voice was softer now, dreamy almost.

"I cannot risk being seen. I am used to chill."

"But obviously not water, you nearly broke down my door trying to escape it."

It would seem that the harshness of reality had given his angel a backbone and some wit to boot. He mourned for the purity of her once child-like soul, but he admired the new strength in her reserve. He knew he was the reason why she was forced to harden herself, and for that he was deeply ashamed.

Every time she snapped at him he felt himself shudder with sadness, he was not used to such staunch disobedience. Yet, a part of him was relieved that their new relationship would be built on foundations of equality rather then threats, lies, and coercion. With no deception between them they could rebuild what he had sabotaged and torn apart in his jealous rage. He would see if he could win her heart without manipulation, but he was not opposed to using force should he feel the need to. He was changed in certain ways, but no one ever truly becomes a different person, and he would not allow another betrayal such as the one he experienced on stage that night.

The rest of the ride continued on in thick silence. It was not uncomfortable though; it was simply the only option available. Words meant nothing this night, her agreement to this arrangement was all he needed to sooth his tortured mind for now.

He had asked Sofia to deliver some bread, cheese, fruit, and wine to his house earlier in the day. He told her he was expecting a guest, and he needed not explain any further. She had insisted that a hot meal be brought over and praised the skills of her longtime cook, but he declined. She probably thought that he and his "guest" would be too busy to sit down for a meal, but he knew that neither of them would be hungry. Anticipation and worry often keep the need for food at bay, sometimes they make even the thought of it unbearable.

* * *

Once inside the modestly sized house, Christine began to wander. It was so dark and forbidding, yet so glaringly beautiful. It was so very _him. _The woodwork was impeccable, the furniture elegant, the colors dark yet tasteful. The deep red hue of the sitting room made the room warm and sensual, much like her and Raoul's bedroom. Oh, how Raoul had detested that colour before relenting!

The house was also quite advanced and modern. He had fashioned a bathroom similar to the one in his lair with a functioning toilet and heated water. She would not need to heat buckets over the stove when she wished to bathe. The blue marble was lovely as well. What shocked her most was the fact that he prominently displayed the toilet tissue on the countertop! No civilized household would keep something so vulgar in such plain view. In mute disgust she quickly placed it behind the toilet bowl, away from sight. Some things were best kept hidden.

She walked over the room that was to be her boudoir for the next two weeks. It was plain, but welcoming. It was easily the warmest room in the house. The white walls and soft blue carpet complimented the large four-poster bed with the blue silk sheets. The walls were almost completely bare, but still the room did not appear barren. The lovely oak furniture was also wonderful to behold. How did he obtain these things?

She could hear him walking, his footsteps curiously light for a man of his size. She moved to shut the door and lock it to change, but was most horrified to notice that there was no lock at all.

Her heart began pounding wildly in her chest. If he would walk in at any time surely anything could happen! She did not fear an assault, but she knew he was a deeply lustful man, he may not be able to keep his promise if he knew that she slept in his home without any metal contraption to keep him from entering her chambers.

She stormed towards the sound of the footsteps and found him standing before a window, staring out at the rain as it cascaded down the sparkling clean glass.

"There is no lock on my door!" He turned lazily to look at her.

"Is that a problem? I did not put a lock on it because that room usually goes unused, it would have been wasteful."

"I need my privacy!" His eyes darkened with an emotion that she could not identify. It was something between anger and hurt.

"Do you not trust me? Do you not think me a man of my word?" He turned and stalked towards her, his eyes glaring with indignation at her perceived insult.

"I…I…just need privacy, is all. A lady is entitled to that, especially when she is living alone with a man not her husband." Despite her attempts to remain calm, his wrath frightened her. She hated how she let him frighten her.

"You think I will charge into your room in the night and attack you like a common rapist!" He nearly spat the word at her feet.

"No! I do not think that!" In a way, she somewhat did. She had seen him lose control far too many times.

"Yes you do! After all of this time, after all that we have been though, after the selfless mercy I showed you and that boy, you still see me as a monster." He lifted one hand and ghosted it along her shoulder, barely touching her hair.

She did not answer.

"I'm sorry." He said no more, but simply walked away from her once again. She still could not abandon her fear of him; he had nearly taken her in her own yard mere days ago! A part of her felt the sting that she inflicted in his heart, but it was nothing compared to the crushing remorse he felt thinking about why she felt the need to keep him from her with a steel bolt in the first place.


	13. Distances of the Heart

**Chapter 13: Distances of the Heart**

**A/N: Sorry about the extended absence, I have not forsaken you! Thanks for all the reviews, they mean a lot to me. Now, for those naughty reviewers begging for some smutty-goodness: Patience! The sex will come, but Erik and Christine must first resolve a plethora of issues before the blood begins to rise and sleeping buds burst in to bloom, etc, etc. Worry not, I will not deny you erotic treats. You must wait just a little bit longer. R N'R**

A life lived in peaceful prosperity quickly caused one to forget the frantic mesh of voices and footsteps invading ones ears with their giddy delight and frustrated demands. Such was the life contained inside an opera house. The excitement, the harsh remarks of the tutors, trainers, and stagehands, and the lyrical laughter of young people stole ones ability to think. It was easy to become enraptured in the drama that the building promised.

Raoul let a long, deep sigh. His first time at the Populaire had been engraved in his memory forever. He was astounded by the splendor that glittered around him; the sheer elegance of the palace of the arts had enchanted him. No one could help but feel as though the dramatics of the stage called out to them as they immersed themselves in a world that promised laughter, tears, and tragedy followed by fine wine and cheerful conversation.

Such were the joys of old. Such were the joys of ignorance. Raoul could not tell if he was displeased with this particular opera house simply because it was, in fact, an opera house. He hated the colours, the staircase, the garish costumes, the pompous management, and the high ceilings adorned with paintings of scantily clad angels holding one another with their plump, pink hands. Why must places of such ethereal beauty provoke such dark memories?

The journey to this London opera house had been a long one indeed, and not one that he had expected to take. Uncle Jean had come out of his modest Scottish home that morning looking flustered. His cheeks were flushed; either from frustration or drink he did not know. His thick white moustache was beginning to yellow among the edges, nearly matching the colour of his crooked teeth.

He had greeted he and Philippe coldly while gripping their hands in his callused ones and muttering under his breath various curses and bitter grievances. As it were, they would not be able to discuss matters of business at this home; they would need to travel to the actual opera house so that he could negotiate matters with the staff in person.

It would seem nothing these days could be as simple as he hoped.

Now he stood in the grand entrance to the unfinished building. Gold and bronze adorned the walls and was magnified by the sunlight streaming through the windows. He often had to squint when stepping into the rays of light that lay across the golden tiles. The light in the windows played in the air, illuminating tiny specks of dust that floated about, basking in the warmth of the mid-afternoon glow.

It was strange, a sunny day in dreary London. He doubted that it would last much longer; the gray skies were sure to return by the morrow.

"Comte and Vicomte, this is Mr. Bennett, one of the fine men who will soon manage the opera house." Raoul and Philippe shook hands with the man before them, smiling stoically and dutifully as they did so. The "fine men" sentiment seemed rather forced, if not a bit sarcastic. It was obvious that Jean De Changy knew little about graciousness.

"Gentlemen! I am so pleased that you could see us; we are in great need of your expertise. Especially yours, young man." The red-faced, portly gentleman patted Raoul's shoulder heartily. He also looked like a man who had drunk himself under the table one too many times. Dear God, what was to become of this budding establishment?

"Oh, Monsieur, I am glad that you feel my opinion to be worthwhile. I must admit that I was not a patron for very long, only a few short months really." Raoul kept his expression warm, but a feeling of unease was beginning to creep over him. Mr. Bennett, who had yet to offer a first name, was grinning too widely. His fingers linked and unlinked too often. His agitation was clear.

"Oh, how much experience does one need when it comes to providing support for the wonderful world of the arts?" Raoul's suspicions were correct.

"Oh, Monsieur. I am here to advise, not to provide…" Raoul was abruptly silenced when Philippe raised his hand.

"What do you mean by 'supporting the arts' pray tell?" Philippe's eyes narrowed at the two men before him. The manager and his uncle exchanged awkward glances, their filmy blue eyes locking for an instant in mute concern.

"Oh, well, gentlemen…" Jean began, clearing his throat and adjusting his cravat. "Mr. Bennett knows that attaching the De Chagny name to this establishment will certainly encourage the upper crust to come out in droves, but I am in need of a little financial assistance from yourselves."

"This was not what was mentioned in our correspondence. You are only now telling us that you are to be the patron and that you cannot afford the costs and need our direct involvement!" Philippe's normally sturdy and confident posture disappeared, his shoulders dropping under the weight of this unexpected - and unwelcome - development.

"Yes, well, I did not feel it would be…_courteous _to discuss such important matters in letters. These things are best spoken about over some drinks, are they not?" If it were possible for skin to redden so much as to imitate a boiled lobster, Jean had surely achieved that feat.

"Courteous! It is not _courteous _to bring people to another country to preposition them for money under the guise of an informal discussion!" Raoul felt his face redden as well, a hot flush of anger coursed through him. Oh, how he wished he could forever abandon operas and far-away business excursions. He had not even wanted to go on this ridiculous voyage in the first place! No, he would not sponsor another opera house, he had put his days of 'supporting the arts' far behind him.

"My brother is right, this is most insulting." Philippe had looked forward to the two-week trip. He had expected some random discussions, good brandy and cigars, and perhaps a little time the game rooms. Perhaps he would have been able to temporarily enjoy the company of young Scottish lass while away from Sorelli. Thinking of which, Sorelli had been far too busy for an evening out with him in quite some time. He made a note to himself to write her once this ridiculous business was set straight.

"Gentlemen, please." Bennett began to stumble over his words. "We only ask a very small contribution, you shall be greatly rewarded for your services. We expect this to be a very profitable endeavor."

"And if we refuse?" Raoul examined the wall behind his uncle, seemingly fascinated in the cherub mural that had taken nearly a year to complete.

"Well, if you do…" Jean stepped forward, the look of concern disappearing from his glassy eyes and turning to one of deviant intent. "Then I shall not hesitate to write both of you out of my will."

Raoul let out a boisterous laugh. How could it possibly matter whether his uncle left him estates or not? He was not in need of any money. Besides, the bulk of the De Chagny property had gone to Philippe after their parent's deaths.

"Such disrespect from a man whose wife is known to have had an affair with a wanted murderer!"

A silence fell over the men. A dark, ominous one.

"There was no such thing!" Raoul had a mind to wipe the grin of off his uncle's face in the most aggressive fashion.

"It matters not if there was." Jean continued somberly. "All that matters is that your reputation in this family is ruined, the only one who intends to keep you from being disowned is I, for I need your assistance. It is always a tragic fate for a nobleman scorned by his relatives; scandal is very bad for business, boy. You know how people talk…" He examined his nails, his brows lifted in a look of mock indifference, his voice trailed off liltingly.

"I do not care about reputations!" Raoul spat. Philippe raised his hand once more and placed it on his brother's trembling shoulder.

"We need to worry about these things, Raoul." He spoke softly.

Jean smiled once more.

"Yes, listen to your brother, boy. If you are to be cut-off completely you will be looked upon with disdain by society, and your wife and future heirs will no doubt suffer the consequences of your petulance. It would seem most of your family is quite eager to be rid of you, you did marry a common woman, after all." Bennett spoke coldly, his face a grim image of smug satisfaction.

Silence descended once more, the air burned with indignation and defeat.

"Send for your things boy, you shall be here the three weeks at least. Also, you should expect to be traveling here far more often in the next few years. Patrons – even silent ones – need to oversee their business closely." Jean did not doubt that Raoul would be most beneficial in sorting through matters that he was far too weary to concern himself with in his old age. Ah, such was the joy of having a young relative tainted by the misfortune of marrying beneath his station.

Raoul did not answer, but rather stormed out of the building, nearly knocking over a seamstress on his way out the oak double doors.

* * *

The morning came swiftly. It was ironic, yesterday Christine wanted nothing more then to prolong the daylight to prevent her dark fate from arriving in a horse drawn taxi, now she wished for the nighttime to descend once more so as to avoid waking and having to begin what would no doubt be a challenging journey.

Perhaps she could have stolen several more hours of dream-filled sleep if it were not for the horrendous crashing and banging outside the house.

_What in the name of all that is holy was he doing?_

Pulling her robe around her she opened the heavy blue drapes and looked out into the glowing fields surrounding her. The sun beat against her skin, heating her face and neck. The banging continued, but there was no one to be seen.

Sighing heavily she let the heavy fabric close, blocking out the yellow rays that shone throughout the room. Dressing quickly, she walked outside, shielding her eyes from the punishing sun as she walked to the side of the house.

There he was, ruthlessly tearing apart the wooden paneling on the side of house. She would have thought him absolutely mad had she not seen the brilliantly polished wood lying on the grass behind him. Workmanship was indeed one of his many talents, and it would seem that his anger and frustration had given way to a form of artistry. It was too bad that he chose to nearly rebuild his home as opposed to something more…peaceful.

If he noticed her standing before him, he did not acknowledge her. It mattered not, she had no desire to speak to him after their falling-out the previous evening. She felt a twinge of remorse when recalling the deep hurt in his eyes, but he really had given her very little reason to trust him. Despite his promise not to touch her, she could not be sure of the value of his word.

Perhaps she would drown her sorrows in some sort of activity as well, something more relaxed than tearing down walls with her bare hands and a variety of strange instruments.

She walked back into the house, the atmosphere as dark and forbidding as ever. It would seem that even furniture and the air itself bent to the whims of its master. It was a very warm day, but still the air was cool.

A large room caught her eye and she walked towards it, carefully opening the cherry-wood French doors and stepping into a museum of literary works. Where he could have obtained all of them was a great mystery. Surely his belongings from the opera house were destroyed! She would ask him later, after she found out his name of course. That is, if he in fact had one at all.

His book collection had significant range. From science, to medicine, to literature, to poetry, and history. He had obtained a variety of discourses on politics and philosophy. Jean-Jacques Rousseau and Voltaire stood proudly beside the works of Plato and Socrates. It would seem he as educated in both ancient thought and the enlightenment era. It made sense that one so deprived of human interaction would bury themselves in the thoughts and stories of others.

His anthology of stories by Edgar Allan Poe looked worn, the pages yellowing with age and with creases in the spine, indicative of constant handling. Such macabre stories! Oddly enough he had not a single Shakespearean work. That was very curious indeed. He also was without a bible. He did possess several other works concerning matters of spirituality, especially those of Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. He was obviously never taught of the dangers of polytheism. She laughed silently to herself as she looked at the glossy texts before her.

She continued perusing the books, fascinated by the vast collection of work that must have kept him occupied during so many years of haunted silence. What a cold existence it must have been, buried deep beneath the world of the living in a subterranean hell of his own making.

With a near gasp of disbelief she reached out and touched the spine of a book written by the infamous Marquis de Sade, a man known for his lechery and disgusting depictions of intimate matters. Why was she not at all surprised that he would own this? Why was she so intrigued by the black leather cover? It would seem that he was fond of erotica; a shiver of unwanted excitement ran down her spine. The delightful sensation quickly abated when she looked upon the cracked spine of the famed _Kama Sutra_, a book spoken of in hushed tones in the ballet dormitories.

Tearing her eyes away from the explicit works, she picked up a worn copy of "_Notre-Dame de Paris" _by Victor Hugo. Madame Giry had often spoken of the importance of reading French literature. Perhaps this would make for enthralling afternoon reading.

* * *

Christine walked towards the far edge of the riverbank. She would have read closer to the house, but much to her dismay, she happened upon the Phantom working diligently on his architecture naked from the waist up!

She had never expected to see him so; he seemed far too formal in his choices in clothing to parade around shirtless. It was blisteringly hot in the sun, yes, but still! What agonized her most was not his disregard, but rather her immediate reaction upon seeing his skin soaked with sweat, the muscles underneath flexing and releasing gracefully with every one of his graceful movements. He was a very large man, a very large and solid man.

She sat down upon a grassy slope and opened the book. The warmth of the sun felt wonderful against her back in her simple blue gown. Soon it would become unbearable, but for now it was comfortable. This booked also looked worn, it had been read more than once, but it smelt lovely. Not like a flowery fragrance, but like the musky and familiar smell of recently snuffed candles, the sweet smoke seemed to escape the crisp white pages.

As she turned another page, inhaling deeply, a tiny black figure scuttled across her lap. Her heart jumped into her throat as a wave of heat washed over her, stilling her hands.

The black figure was not so tiny after all. In fact, it was rather large. It continued to walk slowly, moving up towards her forearm which held the book on her lap. Letting out what could only be a pig-like squeal of distress, Christine jumped up, frantically pushing the hideous insect off of her.

The spider clung to the fabric of her dress as she desperately slapped at it, hoping to dislodge it with the frantic swipes while avoiding letting it touch her skin. The book flew out of her hand and landed in the river with a fatal splash. The hideous creature finally unhanded her and fell to the ground and began to scuttle away on its horrible little legs.

Letting out a low moan of despair, Christine pulled her skirt above her knee and stepped into the muddy waters, hoping she would be able to reach the book, although there was no doubt that it was indeed ruined by now. Oh, the Phantom would be even more outraged when he knew that she destroyed one of his books.

She had nearly reached what become merely a sopping wet pile of ink-stained papers when her balance gave out and she fell into the freezing water, the mud sucking in her left foot, causing her to topple sideways as gracelessly as a cow. With one final reach she managed to grasp the mangled work and fling it onto the grass.

The mud made a slurping noise as it tried desperately to keep her foot buried within it. The ledge that she would need to climb to get back on dry land was only two feet high, but the slickness of the moistened earth made her limbs fail miserably as she slipped downwards once more. She would absolutely die if she had to wade through the river and back to the house to be able to walk onto the grass, surely he would see her and think her madder than him!

Her hand nestled in the thick brown mud, her mind wandering to all of the unsightly wildlife that could be crawling near her right now. Her time in this place was surely doomed. To some, this may have seemed comical, but to her it was but a sign of things to come. The entrapment, the desperation, the humiliation, all of it was certainly imminent.

She wanted so badly to sink into the cold brown water, her clothes were as good as ruined now. The soft velvety material would never again regain its original texture after being caked with dirt and submerged in the water. She nearly laughed, how fitting was this? Being trapped in icy water, helpless to pull out.

As she made her final attempt to climb out before resigning herself to the mortification of waddling back the house two hands gripped her beneath the arms and effortlessly hauled her up and onto the ground. Letting out a soft cry of surprise, she felt her cheek brush against the taut flesh of a man.

Stumbling, she blindly reached out and clutched his shoulders in an to attempt to steady herself. Her breathing was hoarse and uneven and her body shivered violently, the beating sun offering no warmth as her skin puckered into tiny goose bumps. Her skin felt as though it was shrinking and wrapping tightly around her chilled bones.

"I grew weary of watching you struggle." The clipped voice above her drew her eyes upward so that they may meet his cold blue ones. There was no concern in those eyes, nor was there any amusement. Perhaps it was anger. Sadness possibly. Yet the distance between them at that time was strangely contradictory considering the physical closeness of their bodies. It would seem that he was still angry about the lock incident.

"Thank you." There was nothing more she could say. Berating him for his coldness would be futile, as would protesting against his assistance. If she were to claim that she could have gotten up on her own both would know it was a lie.

He held her shoulders still, the trembling beneath his hands nearly robbed him of the bitterness that coloured his vision red the night before and made him frantic for a task with which to channel his rage at his own stupidity.

Why did he feel like he was losing control just staring at her muddy and wet body? Why was he so quick to forget all of the pain he suffered at her hands when she simply allowed him to touch her shoulders?

"You should change." She watched his throat contracted as he averted his eyes from her and stepped away.

"I plan to." She picked up a strand of her hair, inwardly grimacing at how difficult it was going to be to comb through the immense mud-soaked tangles.

Watching her touch her hair caused him to gasp silently. The unflattering brown earth coating her body did not detract from how the gown hugged her figure, emphasizing a tiny waist and small, firm breasts. Had he been a normal man and she his wife, he would have warmed her by promptly tearing the dress from her body and taking her right there in the grass. Unfortunately, such were not the joys of their relationship.

He abruptly turned from her, the images in his mind becoming far too desirable. How he wanted to feel her pressed beneath him, arching into his body for warmth, capturing his lips between her own as she begged him to touch her, taste her, _take her. _

_How he wanted to hate her. To punish her for his miseries, to make her pay for his loneliness with her heart, body and mind. _

Without a word she stormed back to the house, partly out of discomfort. Partly out of shock. He had been so distant and cold. His eyes were nearly the colour of ice, even his skin felt eternally cold and lifeless. The chest that she had been pressed against was nearly as hard and empty as the porcelain that concealed part of his face.

In her mind, she knew she should be overjoyed at his indifference. Yet she was not. The barriers he had placed around him were frightening; it was as though the man who plucked her from the river was a stranger. Too often, he would go from the passionate and poetic Angel to the devious and unfeeling monster. _The Phantom. _Who was that man? More importantly, why did she really want to know?

**A/N: Just a quick point, "Notre Dame De Paris" is the French title (and the original one) for "The Hunchback of Notre-Dame."**


	14. Inebriated Confessions

**Chapter 14: Inebriated Confessions**

**A/N: I almost wasn't going to update today because I woke up with a serious sinus headache that made me feel nauseous all morning. I ate some fruit and felt much better, so much better in fact; that I decided now was time for a new chapter! **

**Anyways, I think you guys are going to like this one, especially my faithful reviewer Ziroana. R N' R.**

If resentment were tangible it would most certainly be hideous to behold. Like a large, lumbering ogre it coloured the room with its wrath. Raoul would not take the blame for this horrid turn of events. He would not!

Philippe's cold gaze permeated Raoul's senses as the frozen blue eyes burned holes in his back as he sat at the oak table scribbling furiously, his pen creating angry indentations in the brown paper as ink leaked through the thin parchment, staining the wood beneath it. The words were almost illegible, muddled and crooked, looking as angry as the creating hand's owner felt.

He had not felt so indignant since the day he received that petulant and arrogant letter from the infamous "Opera Ghost" telling him to stay away from Christine. He remembered how those angry red letters caused him to go from fear to anger in mere seconds. Who knew that the heart and mind were capable of such volatile transitions when faced with torment? He had hated feeling so helpless. He was simply told what to do, as though he were not deserving of choice. He was but a mere a puppet in a maniacal game led by an invisible, malevolent master.

Now the control he held over his destiny was once again pulled from his grasp. Oh, Christine would be so angry! She had not wanted him to leave. He had not wanted to leave. Both had felt the gnawing deep within the pit of their stomachs warning them, but they did not heed those silent threats. He did not heed them. He would pay for it now.

"What are you writing?" Philippe set his brandy glass down on the table, a slick clear stain creating a dark circle on the wood. His formal dress looked silly on his tired body. He had removed his cravat but had yet to divest himself of his waistcoat or unlink his cuffs. Raoul had long since done both.

"A letter to Christine, explaining my extended absence." He did not look up as he continued to scribble on the page. Philippe's response was a brutish grunt.

"You sound terrible when you make that noise." Folding the note, he placed it inside the envelope and quickly wrote Madame Giry's address on the surface. He had thought of sending it home, but he doubted Christine would be there. If the Madame opened the letter she would see it was not intended for her and give it to the rightful recipient. Besides, if she did read it, it mattered not. There was nothing of secrecy hidden in the jumbled and exasperated words.

"Do not take your anger out on me." The inn that they were staying in was quite drafty and dark, it would seem that their Uncle could not even put them up in decent lodgings for their troubles. Philippe intended to search for finer ones tomorrow, this simply would not do for the next three weeks.

"It is not as though you are not doing the same." The blue wax seal began to cool and harden.

"I have reason to, you do not." The air became colder.

"It would seem the winds of bitterness are as vicious as ever." Colder still was the night that enveloped them in its cruelty.

"How could I let this happen…" Sinking into the chaise, Philippe rubbed his forehead; his eyes closing as he roughly pressed the skin of his forehead into tight wrinkles of distress.

"Let what happen?" Raoul did not know why he even asked. He knew the answer. There was no answer, just silence. Unspoken truths often remained just that, unspoken.

'You know, Raoul…" Philippe's voice seemed to drift away, sounding both wistful and hopeless. "If you had never found her, this would not be happening to us."

"The man needs money, he would find a way…"

"No! He would not have! He can do this because he is the thread that keeps us attached to our name, in order to keep that thread from being cut, we must comply. This is shameful!"

"I am aware that it is shameful!" Raoul stood up then, turning to face his morose brother. "But it is wrong to blame her for all of this."

"I do not blame her." Philippe looked out the window. The moon was hidden behind the clouds; the gray English skies were preparing to pour their essence on to the world below at any moment.

"So you blame me then?" More silence. More unspoken truths.

"I blame a lot of things."

"As do I. I blame the foolish rules of this ridiculous world that makes us a slave to our pocketbooks and our names." Despite Philippe's misgivings about Raoul's maturity, he found the statement profound.

"All of us live by codes, not all of them are honorable or good, but live by them we must."

"I suppose there is nothing but pain no matter the choices we make then?" To love was to be damned. To not love was to be damned as well.

"Ah, you have become a man at last!" Whether or not the words were meant as praise or sarcasm Raoul did not know. It was now his turn to grunt.

"Such an unbecoming sound, I agree." Acknowledging his brother's indifference, Philippe poured himself another glass of brandy and sat down once more.

"I suppose we shall just have to make the best of being robbed blind and kept from our homes, now wont we Philippe?"

"Indeed we will."

* * *

Christine ran outside, tearing after the young man who walked rather quickly for a boy his size. It was amazing how fast little legs could carry the young on their purposeful and imaginative journeys to lands unknown. Or in this case, to the nearby market.

If she had known his name she would have called out to him, but alas, she had no such knowledge. It was quite difficult to run on such hard and uneven ground, but run she did until she finally caught up with the blissfully ignorant young man.

He turned around when he felt the hand upon his shoulder. Expecting to see his mother, he was most surprised to see the flushed face a young woman with curly brown hair and the largest brown eyes he had ever seen.

"Oh, I am sorry if I startled you!" Christine felt her heart leap as it tried desperately to calm itself after the unexpected sprint towards the wandering boy. "I figure that you are going to the market, and I would be eternally grateful if you could stop by the bookstore and pick something up for me." She held out a small change purse and he took it hesitantly.

"Oh! You probably are wondering who I am." She laughed to herself, hoping to appear calm and friendly to the perplexed child.

"Oh yes, Mademoiselle, I was."

"I am Christine, I'm staying at the house over there." She pointed to her quaint dungeon. "You see, I foolishly ruined something and it needs to be replaced. If it is not too much trouble you would mind terribly purchasing a copy of "_Notre-Dame de Pairs" _for me? It would mean so much! I would go myself but I do not know the way to the market and…"

"Of course Mademoiselle. I do not mind in the least." A large smile crossed the small brown-haired boy's features.

"Oh thank you so much…"

"Maurice. Maurice Renault." The boy reached out and Christine offered her right hand, which he clasped gently but shook forcefully. His enthusiasm was adorable. For a brief moment she was sure he would kiss her hand, but his boyish pride kept him from becoming too affectionate or formal.

"Thank you Maurice, this is very kind of you." He had to be the son of the people who owned the house two miles up the road. The people who allowed the Phantom to take up residence on their property. Either they were very strange or very ignorant; she knew not which one was true.

Without answer Maurice tipped his hat to her and continued on his merry way to the market.

Despite Christine's anger at the man-with-no-names indifferent treatment after bringing her to his home under the guise of mending broken hearts and troubled minds, she did feel guilty at unwillingly damaging something he owned and seemed to enjoy. She may have been angered, but she would not be rude. Replacing what was broken would make for civility, something they desperately needed between them to make this fortnight-long farce bearable.

* * *

Night descended quickly as the hot sun disappeared, leaving the sky in darkness. An entire day had passed once again, and she and the Phantom had yet to speak. She actually had not seen him all day. He was probably off doing whatever it was that Phantoms do. The absurdity of the thought made her laugh silently to herself.

Where had that man gone? That man with the vicious temper and strong hands. Where was that man with the beautiful voice and tortured eyes? Who was this stranger who pulled her from muddy waters and dismissed her as one would a silly child? Who was the man who nearly assaulted her in her yard then nearly broke apart with hurt when she asked for a lock on her door? Who was the man with passion in his voice and undying love in his heart for a broken and lonely child and a confused yet passionate woman? Who was the violent and murderous monster that doomed his unwilling subjects to torture and death? How could all of these men be one and the same?

She sat down at the table, admiring the soft wood and running her fingers across the smooth surface. No doubt he created this himself, molding and shaping the wood to suit his vision. Was everything like pliant wood to him? Needing his touch to grow and become strong and beautiful?

"I never thought wood could be so interesting." He was there. The first words he had spoken to her in more than a day startled her, causing her to jump violently at their invasion.

"It's rather lovely."

"Thank you." Tonight she looked beautiful in her soft green dress, the dark shade complimenting the smoothness of her skin and the deep, rich brown of her hair.

"Does the opera ghost have a name?" Her voice shook slightly when she spoke, but she could no longer stand the silence that pervaded the atmosphere.

"He does." He had realized then that he had never told her his name. He was her angel and her Phantom. A spirit and a presence that followed her, tempted her, threatened her. He never could be just a man to her; a mere mortal could never make a woman love him when he was as scarred as he.

"Care to share it?"

"His name is Erik."

"Erik…" She tested the word; letting it roll across her tongue. Never had she imagined him as a human common enough to warrant a name.

"Yes, Erik."

"Does this Erik have a last name?"

"He does not."

"Everyone has a last name."

"Clearly that is a myth." The bitterness in his voice caused his tone to become more of a bark than a smooth baritone.

Reaching onto the seat besides her to retrieve the wrapped parcel she reflected upon the new knowledge that was swimming through her mind. _He really was a man, nothing but a man._

"I bought you something." Holding the package out to him she met his eyes. Some of the distance in them seemed to fade away, the coldness melting into curiosity and surprise.

"Why?" He held the package gingerly in his hands, seemingly afraid to open it.

"It's nothing exciting, I'm just replacing something that I destroyed. I'm sorry about that, by the way. You see, there was this spider and…"

"A spider caused you to fall into the river?" He raised one eyebrow and stared at her, his expression showing both amusement and annoyance.

"Yes." For a moment, she almost thought she saw his lips turn upwards in what could have been a smile. Yes, it was Erik who smiled. The Phantom never smiled, he was far too dramatic and dark. Could she ever separate the man from the Phantom? Could he?

"They can not hurt you." He unwrapped the package and held the book in his hands. He had been planning to purchase a new copy in time; he would not have to now. Yet he knew he would need to purchase her something in return, it was not proper for a lady to spend such money on a man. She would think him a lout. Not that it mattered what she thought really. _How easily one lied to themselves!_

"What can't hurt me? Spiders? I know, but they are horrid creatures!"

"It is complete silliness that something the size of your fingernail could cause you to hurl yourself into a river."

"Actually, it was at least the size of my eye. You did not see it, therefore you do not know how large and frightening it was." The look of indignation that crossed her face was more endearing then he would have liked to admit.

"I have seen enough spiders in my day, many more then you have, I assure you. Never have I felt the need to plunge into icy waters to escape one."

Could it be? Christine thought to herself. Could she and the Phantom be bantering with one another playfully?

"I did not plunge, I fell."

"In a fit of irrational hysterics! Why did you go all the way over there, anyhow?"

"I just felt like it would be an ideal place to read. You were being quite loud, and I did not want to disturb you, for you were still angry with me." She decided not to mention that the sight of him working without a shirt was most unsettling.

"I have spent too much time on anger, let us not speak of it tonight." He felt an odd sense of serenity overcome him as he placed the bread and cheese on the table. Never before had he the chance to talk with Christine as the man who was Erik. No longer a ghost, an angel, or a demon, he was as much a man to her as he was that fateful night on stage. He could hate her for her betrayal, but she could hate him for his deception and madness. It was time to put hate aside and rebuild what he destroyed from the moment she first removed his mask so many months ago.

Pouring them both wine, he sat down before her and listened to the soft sounds of peace. Neither felt awkward nor frightened, there was no need to.

"This is not good, Erik." She stared down at the ruby liquid in her glass, seeing her distorted and wavering reflection on the surface.

"I have more wine in the cellar."

"No. The wine is fine. This, us, us together, is not good." Setting down his glass he looked at her struggling with her words. He doubted even she knew what she meant.

"What exactly is not good?"

"Why are we not strong enough to burn our bridges?" Perhaps the wine was talking more so then she, but the thoughts that gnawed at her were now being released in a torrent, both were helpless to stop them.

"We are. Yet, when we see one another on the other side of the fire, we cannot help but run into it. Call it weakness if you will, but know that it is not what it is."

"To feel the pain of being burned should teach us our boundaries, should it not?"

"Are you being burned right now?" He gently ran the tips of his fingers down the stem of the glass. The room was dark as the candles fluttered in the gentle breeze; a gentle glow caressed her face as she fretted with her skirts.

"I do not need to be to know that it will come in time." The melancholic look on her face rendered him speechless. How had she become so old?

The same silence that was present before returned. She began her fourth glass of wine, the delightful weightlessness that coursed throughout her legs spread to her belly. It lingered there before reaching her face, causing it to blush pleasantly.

"Hmm, this is wonderful."

"What is?" He was not sure if she meant the wine, or the calm silence between them.

'This delicious wine. I feel so warm, all over. My skin just feels so glorious, does yours?"

His eyes widened in harsh understanding. Her melancholy musings were now replaced by drunken ones. He had not been paying any attention to how much she imbibed. It was strange really, how one would poison their body to escape their own mind. He had done it many a time.

"My legs feel so weak!" She giggled girlishly. "I would ask you to carry me to bed, but that would be wrong."

"Oh, would it now?" _Stop it! _His mind screamed at him.

"Why, of course!" She opened her eyes wide in a look of such sweet innocence that he almost laughed. Laughing was something he seldom did. He had not much to laugh about.

"Why would it be wrong, Christine?" _Stop this madness now! _His mind screamed at his unruly tongue.

"Because." She hiccupped loudly and quickly slapped her hand over her mouth, embarrassed by the squeaky sound emerging from her throat. "You are not allowed to touch me, when you do, I feel like I am on fire. That, and you are an animal!" Her laughter faded to a look of condemnation. He would never, ever be forgiven for the night in her yard. Never.

"Well, the animal who makes you burst into flames is taking you to bed regardless of rules." If it were possible for her eyes to widen further they would surely have popped right out of her head.

"No…"

"Yes. Oh, I will not do anything to you, I simply want to make sure you do not tumble on your way to the bedroom and break your neck."

"No. You want to do sinful things to me!" That giggle started again. His pants began to tighten uncomfortably so.

"Come." He gripped her elbow tightly and began to walk her towards her room. It would seem that women were not able to hold their liquor. Or tolerate insects. Or climb out of muddy rivers. Oddly enough, he felt a deep sense of pride that he could chase away the spiders and lift her from the water.

Once inside the room she sat upon her bed, her eyes moving back and fourth wildly, trying to adjust to the sweet feeling of intoxication as it blurred her vision and spun the room about her prone body.

He stepped outside of the room, sighing heavily as he thought of her inside, removing her clothing and slipping beneath covers. _Stop it! Stop it! Stop it! She will never love you as you love her. _

Why? Why could he not hate her? He had hardened his heart to many things, but not to her. Not to his angel. Could he ever truly burn the bridge that called to him? That same one that begged him to cross it and promised him nothing but agony should he do so? His brooding thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of retching coming from inside the room.

Throwing open the door, he saw his angel bent out of the window, the back of her dress open to her waist, vomiting into the garden below.

Without a second thought he ran to her and gently caressed her back over top of her tightly laced corset as she sputtered and chocked on the wine and cheese that were no longer safely contained inside of her body.

"Ang…Erik, go away!" She continued to retch, her pain clouded with embarrassment at having him see her in such a state.

He answered with soft shushing noises and continued to stroke her back gently, comforting her as one would a sick child. His heart felt torn at the sight of her suffering even the smallest distress. She was just so small, so delicate. The violent spasms seemed as though they would tear her body in two.

"I…please, don't touch me." Embarrassment turned to mortification as she gagged one last time. The soft hand on her back did not relent.

She turned swiftly, sprinting towards the bed and collapsing gracelessly on top of it. Letting out a sigh of harsh relief, the terrible feeling in her stomach and throat finally faded away.

The bed sunk beneath his weight. Her humiliation vanished; he had seen her at her worst, now she wanted nothing more then for him to sit with her until she slept. She hated being alone when she was sick. It had always frightened her as a child.

She gasped when she felt fingers begin to gently tug the dress down her arms, but she did not resist. Her body froze and became limp beneath his fingers.

"You should not wear restrictive clothing when you are ill, it is dangerous. It compresses the lungs and constricts the abdomen." He spoke formally and clinically, much like a doctor. She could only groan in response as he lowered the dress and slid it down her body.

His fingers moved to the laces of her corset and he felt his breath catch in his throat. No, he would never take her in such a state. He was in control. _He was in control._

One by one he pulled the laces open, hearing her let out relieved breaths as the contraption opened, allowing her to take much needed air into her lungs. Once it opened he lifted her and dragged it off of her body, throwing it into the heap of discarded clothing on the floor.

He went to pull down her left stocking when her hand grasped his wrist weakly.

"Don't leave."

"I thought you wanted me to."

"I lied." Her head fell back again, her eyes closed once more.

He continued to pull the soft material down her leg while trying to keep his eyes away from the smooth flesh of her thigh.

"You shouldn't be doing that." She rolled onto her back, one arm resting across her forehead.

"You will be more comfortable if I do."

As if his words were prophetic, she sighed in relieved comfort when he pulled the tight fabric off of her body, leaving her in a thin chemise and drawers.

His body burned with desire. He wanted to take the thin garment that covered her body and tear it down the middle, leaving her naked and defenseless beneath him. The drawers would no doubt suffer the same fate. His breath quickened when he thought of pinning her under him and touching every part of her, making her completely and utterly open to him.

Instead he lifted the covers over her. He had felt like this before. The night she had fainted after seeing the doll he lovingly created in her honor, how he wanted to take her in the swan bed. He wanted to plunge into her and until she could no longer breathe, until walking and standing was impossible for them both.

He sat up and felt a tiny hand clutch at the white fabric of his shirtsleeves.

"Please don't go."

He lay down again, facing her and gently touching her hair as she began to drift off to sleep.

"Erik?"

"Yes?" He had to fight to urge to press a comforting kiss to her forehead as it furrowed in thought.

"Are you still the Phantom?"

"Not if you do not want me to be."

"Why did you pretend to be my angel?" Whether or not she would remember the answers come the morning did not matter to him. Only now mattered. Tomorrow she would not let him stroke her hair or sleep in her bed. No, tonight was his one chance to lie close to her. The seduction of his angel could not begin yet. No, she was not ready. He was not ready.

"I wanted to mean something to someone."

"Why did you hurt so many people?" Tears slowly began to seep out of her closed eyelids. He longed to kiss them all away, but he would not.

"Because I loved you so much I thought I would die if I could not have you." He whispered it softly, his breath tickling the shell of her ear.

"But angels cannot die."

"Yes they can. They fall Christine, they fall everyday."

"Thank you Erik."

"Whatever for?" Letting his restraint slip he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles, but he doubted she felt it, she was drifting in and out of unconsciousness rapidly now.

'For loving me when I was forever alone." With that sleep took her, but it never came for him that night.


	15. Of Love and Lovers

**Chapter 15: Of Love and Lovers**

**A/N: Thanks so much for all of the reviews, they make me so happy! cries tears of joy Now, in this chapter there is a treat for all of my loyal readers. Yup, that's right, there is naughtiness ahead! There is not yet sex, but there will be a lusty endeavor. Please review and let me know what you think. **

**Oh, the italicized words belong to the Marquis de Sade.**

Sleep drifted away slowly even as she tried desperately to hold on to it with all of the might she could muster. The calm that had laid her body to rest took its leave of her and allowed the cold air of the morning to take its place. Consciousness was cruel. The blissful ignorance of deep slumber no longer let her senses lie passively beneath the warm weight of darkness.

The dull throb in her abdomen escalated as she drew herself upwards. The ache in her head caused her to cradle her face in her hands as the glaring light of day raped her tender eyes. There had to be a tiny, sinister dwarf lodged between her ears banging drums incessantly, laughing cruelly as the reverberations caused every organ in her body to scream in silent agony.

No longer could unconscious passivity keep the pain of self-abuse at bay, it had come for her. Closing her eyes once more, she brought her hand to forehead and massaged the heated skin gently. Her hands carried with them the most awful stench! Pulling her curled fist away from her nose, she turned onto her other side, her stomach shrieking in horror at the sudden jolt that sent it tumbling once more. Any movement was a vicious crime against her protesting insides.

There he was.

Those eyes, those eyes that burned into her soul, creating arousal, terror, and reluctant compassion, were closed. That face that was always contorted into lines of deep bitterness, pain, or passion was relaxed. Peaceful. Quiet. Even with the white porcelain imprisoning half of his face, he looked at peace, as though he were free from all worldly pains.

He had removed his jacket and boots and lay on his back, his shirtsleeves parting naturally at his chest, exposing the golden skin adorned with dark hairs. His chest rose and fell softly with his even breathing, barely a whisper of a sound escaped his slightly parted lips. His dark lashes rested against his cheeks, the shadows feathery and soft.

She noticed that he had removed the wig of glossy ebony hair that he always wore. His soft ash brown hair was mussed, wisps of it caressing his smooth forehead.

Once again, she looked at him and did not see the man responsible for so much death and destruction. Who was it she saw?

Did she see an angel?

No, that illusion had long since been destroyed.

Did she see evils hidden within the dark depths of the sleeping man's heart?

No, she did not.

Did she see a pathetic creature hell bent on spreading the infectious disease that was his misery?

Much to her confusion and disdain, no.

How much had this man suffered before his bitterness and loneliness consumed him so completely? How did he ever survive these past few months? Did he feel guilt or shame when he remembered the fateful night of their parting? Perhaps he was leaving the past behind and forsaking memories of a different life. Yet, could one truly escape the memories that once drove them to madness? He was still mad, for all she knew.

He continued to lay still, his mind and body resting, allowing him a brief yet merciful escape from the prison that was his very existence. She never thought that he could be watched in such a vulnerable state. That strong, dark, powerful man whom controlled the world of the living with the fist of steel and a will of the gods, looked so very defenseless beneath her soft gaze.

This man was not defenseless. Broken? Yes. Wounded? Indeed. Weak? No, not he. He could be in weak in spirit and mind, but never would he submit to the laws that governed mankind, or concede defeat. That was why she was with him now, lying beside him after inviting him to her bed in a moment of physical weakness and mental apathy.

Never could she know why she hated his nature but longed for his presence. She was a woman of intelligence, was she not? She knew that the man who lay before her was dangerous. A threat to her safety, her body, and her mind. Yet, as much as she loathed him for his deviance, she wanted his touch. His hands on her body would be the sweetest torture; she had yearned for his body in her dreams even while her waking mind hated him.

If she did not fear giving he and every man, woman, and child within 20 miles of them all instant heart attacks, she would surely have screamed at the top of her lungs. Not a scream of horror or fear, but of distress at her traitorous and confused mind. How she wanted to release all of the guilt, longing, and pain in one long, deep, tortured, shrill sob of contempt! The war within her was ravaging her deeper than any bullet ever could. The pain of a budding betrayal against the one she loved most, her husband, was like a noose, violently garroting the life from her body.

It seemed so long ago when the voice of her angel made her lonely life worth living. He let her know that as long as she spoke to him each evening, she would never be an orphan. She had always hated the word orphan; the pain of losing a parent at such a young age was too deep, too anguishing to have a name. An orphan was a thing, and never could grief that staggering be objectified.

So many times she thought that she could never make it through the day without her angel. It was strange really, how that angel became a man who confessed that he could not make it through the day without her, and she could not be with him.

Did Erik feel as though his body would destroy itself upon her leaving? When her father died, the pain was not simply emotional; it was physical as well. Her insides felt as though they would surely wither and die, the pressure in her chest enough to bring her to her knees upon the beige carpeting of the house that they stayed at. The house where he went to die.

Surely, she had to have been dead to him that night when she left him. There must have been a moment where he saw her as a ghost, flitting out of his life with barely a trace, save for memories. Had his grief torn at him from the inside? Had grief been tearing at him all of his life?

Reaching out a reluctant hand and ignoring the sickness within her stomach - part from alcohol, part from confusion at her own thoughts - she tenderly swept his hair from his face. She avoided touching his mask as her fingers let the thin strands slide through them with ease. Upsetting the barricade that was the forbidding white porcelain proved to be an unwise choice in the past. As dramatic as it sounded, terrible things did occur when the notorious Phantom was stripped bare of what he felt he needed most.

As her fingers drifted across the cool skin of his forehead Erik startled violently. Surging upwards in surprise, he roughly clasped her wrist, pulling it away from his face with undisguised alarm.

"Christine!" Placing a hand to his thunderous heartbeat he looked to the woman beside him, her face a white sheet of shock.

"I…" She could find no words. She had not expected him to wake so suddenly by her soft touch, his lightning quick awakening had startled her nearly as much as it had him.

"What were you doing?" He released her wrist and ran a hand through his hair, allowing his heart time to return to a slow and steady pace that did not shake his entire body with its intensity.

"I…I just went to push your hair out of your eyes, is all." She sat up and pulled her knees against her chest in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

"Oh, I apologize. I was startled is all, I did not intend to frighten you." Her declaration of her intention shocked him to the very core. Never had someone shown him affection so simple as to touch him gently while he slept. Not even as a child.

"No need to apologize." She managed a weak smile before laying her head down once more, the weight of it making it far too difficult to hold it up any longer.

"How are you feeling?"

"Terrible." It was the truth. Her body felt wretched.

"I have a solution to that, a cure you might say. Take heed my warning though, you will not like it." He thought of putting on his jacket, but decided that it would be both pointless and silly.

"I will like anything compared to what I feel now." She rolled onto her side and cradled her face in the crook of her arm in an attempt to drown out the pounding in her skull. That rude, incessant dwarf was out to torture her once more.

"I forgive you your ignorance, you know not what you say." He joked before leaving the room to bring back the repugnant cure that she craved as much as a woman lost in the desert would crave water.

Within moments he returned with a thick brown liquid in a clear crystal glass. Did he have any dishes of poor quality? She doubted it.

She took the glass from him and brought it to her lips and sipped it tentatively, the brutal taste was worst than she expected.

"Erik! It is bitter, and salty, and warm!" Her face contorted into a look of revulsion as she pulled the offending substance away from her mouth. Those three adjectives could not do justice to the filth that she had ingested.

"Did I not warn you? You must finish."

"No, not possible!" She tried handing him back the glass, but he rose from the edge of the bed in swift rejection.

"If you wish to feel better you will drink it, I assure you, mere seconds of revulsion are much better than an entire day of it." He had a mind to pour it down her throat, but felt such an action unwise and unwarranted.

Closing her eyes tightly and taking a deep breath akin to the one taken when one is about to dive into an ocean, she hastily gulped down the revolting liquid. She was certain she heard her throat scream in horror as the liquid coated it. Her poor body had suffered no end of abuse this past night.

"In mere moments you will be feeling much better." He took the glass from her and watched as she slumped down onto the mattress once more, groaning as she did so.

* * *

She lay perfectly still as the vile liquid began to work its magic on her. The vicious pounding her head seemed to fade to a silent hum and her lurching stomach was one again calm.

Feeling more like herself, she stood up and began to make her way to the marbled bathroom. Never had she craved a bath as much as she did right now. Luckily this door came equipped with a lock. If Erik were to see her bathing she would die of embarrassment, or horror. It would depend on his reaction to her naked and soapy skin. Would he be as shocked and horrified as she? Or would his eyes darken with lust as he closed the door softly behind him and stalked towards her bare and defenseless body, caring nothing for propriety or gentlemanly conduct as his animal lust overwhelmed him?

The perversity of her thoughts made her gasp in disgust as her face reddened. Did she want to be ravished in a bathtub? No, God no! Such a thing would be humiliating, debasing, and sinful!

She noticed with annoyance that the toilet tissue was once again on the counter-top. Did he know nothing of modesty? She moved it again from sight as she looked through her soaps and creams.

Finding the lavender scent that she favored, she stepped into the hot water, sighing deeply as she submerged herself in the steamy depths. A working bathroom was a luxury beyond imagination. Had he built it himself? He certainly had the craftsmanship and knowledge to do so.

Massaging the scented soaps into her hair, she closed her eyes in contentment. Her and Raoul's house was in the midst of having a full bathroom constructed. As it stood, the silent servants still needed to carry up heated bathwater in buckets, something that always brought Christine no end of guilt.

Closing her eyes, she felt her exposed skin begin to perspire lightly as the steam caressed it. Droplets from her face lingered upon her lips before moving in slow, languorous descent down her neck and chest. Sighing once more, she marveled at the size of the tub. It could fit two people comfortably.

Perhaps her and Raoul would enjoy one another's company in a large porcelain bath. Perhaps she and another…

Erasing the sinful thoughts from her mind she forced herself to entertain thoughts of a more conventional nature. She needed to see Madame Giry soon; surely the old ballet mistress was concerned for her. Perhaps a letter from Raoul would be in her possession, although she doubted he would have time to write her, or that a letter would reach her in time before his return.

As she drifted into that strange relaxation that is not yet sleep but not quite wakefulness, she saw fleeting images in her restless mind of a large, dark man pulling her from the water beneath her arms. She stood before him, his hands clasped to her upper arms, his eyes probing her flesh as she dripped water onto the slick tiles. The cold air kissed her skin, making it pucker beneath its touch as the large hands ran over her body, pressing her to the clothed body of a man. He spoke, but she could not hear him as she struggled pitifully against him even as her thighs grew damp.

Forcing open her eyes, she glanced around her, the vision slowly swimming away, fading as quickly as it had materialized.

Standing up from the tub, Christine began to dry herself frantically, hoping the soft material would wash the feeling of those invisible hands from her skin. Yet, they did not disappear. Still they touched her, possessively, forcefully. Powerless against their assault, she stepped out of the bathroom only to be met by a dark haired woman who looked at her with equal shock and surprise.

* * *

Sofia stared at the wide-eyed woman before her, wrapped in a light blue towel that was wound tightly under her arms and fell nearly past her knees.

She made no move to speak or move, but rather stood there, her mouth agape and her eyes pools of confusion.

"Oh, hello! I am so sorry to have startled you." Christine stared at the attractive woman in front of her, her smile was wide and her dark eyes friendly, even as her words seemed muddled and unsure. It would seem that many people were being startled today.

"Oh, I…it's fine." Christine would have extended her hand had she not feared that the towel would unravel and fall to the floor, increasing the awkwardness of the unexpected greeting even more.

"I am Sofia Renault, I live in the mansion two miles from here…"

"You own this property?" Christine inquired civilly.

"Why, yes. My husband, he passed a few years ago. I've stayed in the house, and I offer this one to patrons for as long as they need it. Erik has been here for some months now."

Erik had spoken to someone else? Of course he had! He could not simply take up residence in this house and not have had dealings with someone, but he seemed so mystical, so separate from the laws of society that she envisioned him coming to the home as a spirit, not a boarder. Still, the conversational tone with which Madame Renault spoke of him seemed strange to Christine. Never had she even heard Madame Giry refer to him as Erik, although she did not doubt that she knew him by name.

"Oh, I am sorry about your husband." Christine then noticed the elderly blonde woman standing near the window, her countenance blank and body unmoving.

"Thank you." Looking wistful, Sofia waved forward the woman by the window. As she walked forward, the glare of the sun no longer obscured her features and the hard lines of her face came into view. She had a face carved in stone, the granite features showing no softness. Her walk was like that of a furious horse, clipped, thunderous, and purposeful. Her strides were long, her steps swift, and the speed alarming for a woman her age.

"I came by this morning," Sofia continued, "to ask Erik if you were needing anything. I asked if perhaps, you would like the services of a lady's maid in the mornings, he said to talk to you, as he was not sure of your preferences. Is that all right Mademoiselle…?"

"Giry." Christine continued quickly. To say De Chagny would be unwise. If this woman had a title, she would most certainly be acquainted with Raoul's family, or at least recognize the name. The surname Daae was also too popular in social circles, too often associated with gossip and dramatic embellishments concerning the opera ghost.

"Christine Giry." She finished, smiling as she did so. "Yes, I would like the service from time to time, if that is fine by you."

"Oh, of course! This is Marie Rouselle, my lady's maid who will no doubt be of great service to you whenever you shall need her."

"I appreciate this, thank you." Christine felt as though she should, in good conscience, refuse the help, but dressing would be made much easier with the help of another. She dared not ask Erik, allowing him to touch her so intimately, or at all, would be most unwise.

Thinking of her new name, she was frightened to hear the lie slide so easily off of her tongue. So many people had been lied to. Her husband, his family, this woman, herself.

Smiling widely before turning away in a flurry of violet skirts, Sofia bid the two women farewell. She did not know what to say to Erik's mysterious young lover. The girl looked solemn to her; perhaps her circumstances were as dark as the man with whom she was keeping close company.

Perhaps Sofia feared that if she and Christine spoke too much, Christine would find out that she was Erik's former lover, even it was only temporary and existed purely out of the need of two people to seek comfort in each other's bodies. Jealously ruined more unions than any other emotion, she did not want to create tension in the fragile lover's tryst that seemed so bizarre, yet so very intense.

When she asked Erik about his lover, his eyes seemed to become dark, passionate, and deeply melancholic all at once. Yet, there was a glimmer of hope that brightened his dark features, a hope that briefly kept the sadness at bay.

She was sure that the young woman was here of her own volition. Erik, although a mysterious man, did not strike her as one to hurt a woman. He was a kind and considerate lover concerned with his partner's pleasure, surely no man so in tune with a woman's body would ever bring harm to one. Besides, the girl did not look distressed or weary. Maurice had told her that had met her yesterday and had gone to purchase something for her at the bookstore at her request. She did not run up to her son and beg for knowledge as to how to escape the property unnoticed.

Surely, Sofia thought to herself confidently, everything with this strange couple was right as rain.

* * *

Marie Rouselle was an unpleasant woman. No, unpleasant was a polite term, one of refinement that masked the true meaning behind the inoffensive word. She was colder than ice and as a stern as a stone statue.

She tended to grumble and frown. Whenever Christine and Raoul would make silly faces at one another when they were children, her father would always ominously warn them that their faces would forever stay like that. She now realized that there had been truth in his empty threat, for Marie's face had frozen in lines of anger after so many years of frowning.

Why someone as seemingly good-natured as Sofia Renault would employ such a haggard old woman with so unkind a disposition was a mystery to her.

Marie had gasped in horror when Christine informed her that her services would not be necessary for today as she did not wish to wear a corset. She tried to explain that her stomach was in no way well enough to be confined by one, but the woman had gave her a look that made her feel as though she had been caught stealing diamonds from a sultan. That impudent hag had mumbled that the pain in her upper body was probably higher than her stomach and lower than her shoulders. When Christine inquired as to what the implication was, the woman muttered something about allowing a man to take liberties. At that, Christine had dismissed her immediately and said she would call for her again only when absolutely necessary. She was sure the woman would never dare to speak to Madame Renault in such a way, and she did not want to feel the accusing eyes upon her anymore, not when she had done nothing to deserve them.

Putting on a yellow silk dress, Christine wandered down to the library. Looking outside, she noticed dusk beginning to settle, the sky a glorious hue of pink as the illuminated clouds drifted across the coral abyss. She had slept later than she had first thought; the day had passed her by quickly.

The book collection was as impressive as when she first laid eyes on it. Still, no Shakespeare to be seen. She would need to ask Erik about that later on, no library was complete without Shakespeare!

Where had Erik gone? She had not seen him since he forced that horrible, yet effective concoction down her throat.

Touching the spines of the leather bound books gently, she felt her gaze wander to that black Marquis de Sade book. She should have been horrified that Erik would even own such a thing. Marquis de Sade was a man known for his debauchery and his perversions. A man who had spent nearly a quarter of his life in prison for his tastes!

Yet, the forbidden fruit always had the sweetest taste, and even if it was sour, it at least satiated the wandering mind, did it not? Surely _Les Crimes de L'amour_ had been read by many, even though it was dismissed as vile, it was still read. How could it be judged lest it was read?

Picking up the heavy anthology, Christine moved to sit on the cream-coloured chaise and lit the candelabra on the table beside her. It was always most calming to read by candlelight, she found.

* * *

Erik shut the door softly behind him and removed his boots. The house was dark, which was to his preference. He did not want to be assaulted by bright light when the hour grew dark. The darkness gave way to reflection, not always content reflection, but reflection nonetheless.

He had hoped that Christine would be pleased with Sofia's offer. Surprisingly he had no qualms about his past and future lovers meeting. In fact, he had been filled with a smug sense of pride at the fact that Christine might infer that Sofia was at one point his paramour. It was not a long-standing or emotional affair, but it was a liaison, and a fulfilling one at that.

He walked past the library and was most surprised to see Christine sitting on the chaise, a vision of innocent splendor in her pale yellow gown with her hair in loose ringlets surrounding her face and falling down her back.

What intrigued him more was the book laid reverently across her lap. More so, the look of wonder on her face as she turned one page after another, her eyes widening with each and every movement of her graceful fingers. He watched for a moment as the candles cast shadows over her face, the yellow light making her eyes brighter, the chocolate depths more vivid.

Being careful not to disturb her, he stepped into the library, keeping in the shadows and moving as quietly and quickly as a cat. She was far too immersed in her reading to notice as he stepped gracefully towards her, his movements silent, his eyes dark.

Nothing alerted Christine to the presence of another until a shadow darkened the pages before her. Looking upwards, she muffled a small cry of surprise as a large body settled itself in the chaise behind her.

The shadow had his legs spread, each dangling over the sides of the chaise, barely grazing her hips. She could feel his soft breath on her neck, but his chest did not touch her back, he remained mere inches away. No part of him touched her, but he was so close, so warm and hot against her body.

"Do not stop reading on my account, my dear." The deep baritone rang in her ears like the seductive feel of velvet against cool skin.

"I was simply curious, is all!" Slamming the cover shut, she tried to stand, but a hand rested itself upon her shoulder, drawing her back down and then removing itself from her almost immediately.

"No need for embarrassment or modesty. It is my book, if anyone should be embarrassed, it should be me." That slick velvet sound never faltered. He spoke close to her ear now; if he were to slide out his tongue even a fraction of an inch it would caress the tender skin of her earlobe.

"Go back to page you were reading before I so rudely interrupted you." Velvet tones commanded, she obeyed. Even as her heart pounded mercilessly and her skin heated beneath his gaze, her hands obeyed.

He looked over her shoulder at the page that she read. Leaning in closer to her, closer than before, he let his hot breath tickle her ear before speaking.

_"Do with me what you will, your Lordship, I am in your power…" _He said softly, his gaze falling to the smooth flesh of her neck. He wanted to take the soft skin into his mouth and suckle it until she screamed with need. She let out a harsh breath and attempted to pull away once more, but he gripped her thin shoulder, applying gentle pressure to the fragile bones.

_"Use me as you will, I say, I shall not attempt to defend myself…"_ The words in the text rang true for the present. The struggling body was stilled by the voice that read the passages, playing the part of the fearful maiden about to be ravished, a prelude for the woman sitting between his thighs to consider.

"Do not put your hands on me." Christine breathed out even as her eyelids fluttered shut and she inhaled the masculine scent of the man behind her.

"No, no love. I will not, but you will still enjoy this. We both will." With that he let his tongue dart out to lave at her ear. He felt her gasp and whirl around to face him, but he bit down gently upon the flesh to still her movements.

"I said do not touch me, Erik!"

"No, no love." He continued suckling her ear. "You asked me not to put my hands on you."

Pulling away, he looked down at the page and noticed her hands were trembling as they gripped the bindings of the book.

"Erik, you cannot do this." Her voice was broken, broken by passion and fear both.

_"But Mademoiselle." _Erik read, _"have you forgotten that you are in my power?"_

"Erik! I am not!" His mouth lowered itself to her neck, his lips pressing soft, wet kisses to the pale skin.

Raising his head again, he gazed at the page.

"_Proud creature! Will I ever succeed in taming you?"_

"Good God, Erik, stop this." Even as she spoke, her voice wavered and became breathy. With each breath she took her protests turned to soft, whispery moans. His lips returned to her neck and he nibbled gently on the skin, leaving small pink marks with his teeth then soothing them by sucking the skin between his full lips.

"Let us find another story love, this one ends badly for the dueling lovers." He did not wish to add that it ended with the woman in question marrying her true love after the scorned lover goes to great lengths to bind her to him with threats, lies, and force. Sometimes truth was indeed stranger than fiction, and he did not wish to evoke memories.

Slowly, he let his fingers drift to the buttons at the back of her dress. The tiny, silk covered yellow beads fell open swiftly beneath his fingers.

Gasping in shock, Christine turned swiftly and gripped his wrist. Her face was flushed from the arousal building inside of her, but her eyes were still fearful. Fearful of him; or the feelings he was igniting within her, he could not tell.

"Relax Angel, I shall not do anything to you."

She thought of Raoul. This was wrong. The ache between her thighs was wrong. The sweat upon her forehead was wrong. The urge to lean against his chest and press into him was wrong.

Opening up to another story, he lowered the dress down one shoulder as far as the undone buttons would allow and began to kiss her there, his tongue leaving hot, glistening tracks across her skin.

_"She stood out from her companions as the rose catches the eye among ordinary flowers."_

His breathy whisper touched her neck as his lips moved down her shoulder. She fought against the urge to reach behind her and touch the left side of his face lovingly. How she wanted to feel that rough skin beneath her fingers as his lips consumed her body.

The kisses continued and increased in their intensity. Erik gently pulled aside her thick chestnut locks and sucked more tender skin into his mouth. Her lower abdomen began to burn with longing; her breath was short, the moans becoming more pronounced.

_"Who worships this divine creature?" _His dark eyes met the page once more as she let the paper fall from her fingers.

_"I am undone, I am in the power of my worst enemy, I cannot escape the fate that awaits me."_ The suckling continued, the soft sounds floating around the room.

"Say it Christine, say that you are powerless, and I shall let you go."

"Erik, stop." His hand pressed against her stomach, lightly, so very lightly.

"Say that you are powerless."

"Erik, please." Her plea was muffled by her low moan as he hand continued its downward descent until it rested upon her thigh.

"Say it, say you are succumbing to me, that you want me, that you need to feel me inside of you. Say the words, and you shall be free." He was torturing her with his manipulative words even as he worshipped her neck and shoulder with his mouth.

"Erik, no." She put her hand atop his and moved it off of her thigh. He let his hand fall away, but he leaned further over her to suck tenderly on her exposed collar bone, pulling the silk down to reveal more skin for his seeking mouth.

"Tell me, Christine. Tell me what you want me to do."

"Please." Her moans were louder, more desperate even as her mind fought his delicious assault.

"Please what?"

"Stop touching me, stop it, please." Raoul, oh poor, innocent, naïve Raoul!

"Say that you want me to bury myself in you, to possess you and make your body my instrument."

"I will not say it!" Her resistance grew more futile as he brought forth his hand once more and rested it on the inside of her thigh, the fingers moving upwards towards her center.

Without warning he pressed his hand to her womanhood and immediately felt her wetness through the thin yellow silk. Despite her empty pleas, she was hot and wet for him. He grew harder, but dared not let himself rub against her. He would not be able to stop himself if he did.

"Erik!"

"Say it, Christine!" His fingers continued to caress her gently.

"I want you, I want you inside of me, I have dreamed of it so many nights! Erik!" With all of the force in her tiny body, she surged upwards and out of the chaise. Without a thought to the painful, unfulfilled throbbing between her thighs and her body's desperate plea for release, she bounded out of the library and into her room.

This Phantom, this man, this sensual spirit; would not make her betray her husband. No, she would not, she would not, she would not!

* * *

Reclining on the chaise with the smell of arousal still permeating the air, Erik sat in silence. He should have been enraged; he should simply tear into her room right now and finish what they had started. She would go from protesting to weeping in ecstasy, this he knew for certain. Yet, how she could pull away from him when she must have been so close to releasing, he could not help but admire it. Yet the loyalty that made her spring from his arms like a frightened kitten, the loyalty to her husband, made him clench his first in furious hatred. It also made his soul weep with defeat.

The seduction of the angel had begun, but it would never be easy. Yet, he had read once that in this life, there is nothing but possibility, and if he gave up that hope, he would surely die.

**A/N: The italicized lines come from the anthology "The Crimes of Love." The stories used were "Miss Henrietta Stralson," "The Enchanted Tower," and "Ernestine, a Swedish Tale."**


	16. Learning to Live Again

**Chapter 16: Learning to Live Again **

**A/N: First off, I would like to thank all of my reviewers. I was overwhelmed by the response that the last chapter received. I truly appreciate your thoughts, insights, and opinions. You taking the time to provide criticism, encouragement, and suggestions means more to me then you will ever know. **

**Unreachable.star: I would have preferred to have sent you an e-mail, but you do not provide an address in your profile. The 1874 chapters are the ones occurring after Madeline's birth. I label which ones are based in 1874 in the disclaimers. The 1874 chapters are chapters 2 and 7. Thus far, those are the only two. There will be more soon, but not for a while yet. If I were to insert one now it would interrupt the flow of the story. All of the rest of the chapters are written in proper chronological order.**

**As for the review stating that this story mimics another one too closely, I would like to apologize for any similarities that may reduce anyone's enjoyment of this story. I had read the other story in question a few months ago, but I had forgotten that the sex scene in that story also involved reading. Any other stylistic/characteristic similarities are completely unintentional and coincidental. My sincerest apologies for any confusion or loss of credibility on my part, it was not my intent.**

**Now, on with the story, I've babbled on long enough! Don't forget to review and let me know what you think. Oh, and there is a somewhat unsettling dream sequence in the beginningof this chapter that alludes to non-consensual sex. If this bothers you, please skip over the first section. **

Each night it was the same, yet different. The cold, dark air was always heavy, the hatred always deep, and the feel of lifeless skin against lifeless skin painful and cruel. What was different was her eyes. They would burn with hate on some nights, and deep sorrow on others. Her breath was always shallow, often shuddering from the silent sobs that shook her fragile body. The tears were those wrought with suffering. Thicker than blood they ran, causing her face to swell as her chest heaved pitifully.

He was forced to hold her down; she struggled too much when he lifted himself off of her. If his hands did not confine her wrists, she would beat pitifully at his chest and attempt to throw him off of her with all the strength she could muster in her tired arms.

Her pale skin was covered in angry red marks where his fingers dug into her flesh, inflicting light degrees of pain to still her thrashing body and quiet her cries as he moved within her. His harsh growls and breathless grunts made her grimace, her face contorting into a look of such revulsion that he longed to roll her onto her stomach so that he could press that ravaged expression into the blankets while he had her.

He feared that making her face away from him would allow her to pretend he was someone else. He could not allow such treason. No, she would not betray him in her mind.

In his haste he had thrown the red velvet sheets off of the bed, they laid in a rumpled heap beside the it, a corner still tucked beneath the white mattress. With each and every movement of the mattress the coverlet dislodged itself more and more. Perhaps if he pushed further it would come away from the bed completely. Yes, once the sheet fell to the cold, gray stone, he would release her wrists and exit her body.

The hollow cavern was quiet except for her harsh sobbing and his frustrated grunts, the water gently lapped against the concrete shore. It left a green, filmy shimmer in its wake that turned the gray into a deep charcoal black. Darker and darker the stone became, from gray, to brown, to black.

More sobs. More grunts.

_"Please…" _

He did not hear. The only sound was his heart as it shattered at the sight of her bruised skin. He had tried, oh, he had! He tried to be gentle, tender, loving. She resisted. She cried. She struggled and sobbed. She called for her Vicomte. She even silently began to pray for her father.

Like a child, she wept for him. He took her again and again, begging, crying, and pleading with her to love him, to want him, to make love to him.

She struggled, he held her against the mattress. She cried out, he clamped his cold, calloused hand against her mouth. The wetness of her lips and tongue dried on his hand even as she continued to sob and shudder.

She remained mostly clothed. In his rage he had torn at her dress, ripping away the white silk fabric from her shoulders and shredding her outer skirts. Her sobs and pleas made him lose his patience. He had simply thrown her on the bed beneath him and he had his way with her, swiftly and without restraint.

The tears. The sobs. The hate. Oh, how they ripped into his chest and tore out his broken and bleeding heart!

The shadows descended upon them, enveloping them in hellish darkness. He clung to her, but her body had become cold and limp. The blackness covered her face like a veil, draping itself across her reddened skin and ceasing the wretched sobs that echoed mercilessly, driving him to madness.

He could not see her, but he could feel her. She was dissolving.

_"I wish you had died…" _

"Stop…" He called out to the darkness, but his voice sounded hollow and strange. Ugly even.

_"In the cemetery, you were meant to die." _

"Please stop." His pitiful cries were lost in the blackness.

_"He should have taken that sword and buried it in you!"_

He sobbed. It was an awful sound, one filled with pain. Intense, soul-searing pain.

_"Do you feel it now?" _The shadows whispered all around him, moving in closer and closer.

_"Do you feel the blade inside of you?"_

Light. Blinding, beautiful light drove the shadows away. He could see once more. He saw her, but she was not Christine. Scarlet blood ran from her eyes, her tears had turned to her body's essence, leaving her drained and dead beneath him.

So cold. She was so cold, her skin as hard as porcelain; her face twisted and distorted, her body hollow and emaciated.

"No, no my angel!" He shook her. Once. Twice.

She crumbled like a castle of sand, falling away to nothing when he brought his hands to her body.

He shook violently. Once. Twice.

The sobs welled up even as his chest felt crushed beneath an invisible weight. The weight that would surely snuff the life from his body. His wretched, evil life.

The sobs exploded, racking his body even as he struggled to draw air into his lungs.

He sat up then. His chest heaved violently and his skin was soaked in sweat. Wiping his hair away from his forehead, he rested his head in his hands and let out harsh breaths as the sunlight came through the window, peeking between the thick black drapes. The dark oak floors were illuminated by the pale white light of morning, the lines of colour reaching into the room. The sky beckoned him to awaken, to calm his tortured soul once more.

Daylight became a virtuous savior. It used to be frightening; the glow of the sun was overwhelming. Too many things could be seen in the day with no darkness to mask what was meant to be hidden. Yet, as time went on he felt the sun to be less bothersome than he once did.

"Time heals all wounds", they said. He believed that to be untrue. What he knew to be true was that time made one too weary to dwell upon the darkness of the past. The call of life was stronger than the call of memories and musings. Daylight was the world's way of telling one to rise once more and continue living.

Time was merciful. Time was cruel. Time was a precious commodity that needed to be used with care and consideration.

With no opera to run, no minions to control, and no fantasies to sustain his imagination, time was all he had in the world. If he had learned one lesson from last night, it was that time should not be wasted, but savored.

Pushing aside the dreams that tortured his mind, he rose and shrugged into his black silk robe. Tying it loosely around his nude body he opened the drapes. Would he ever be used to this? Could one live as a man after living for so long as a ghost?

Today would be a day like any other. There were people to watch and objects to procure. Some he may pay for, some he may not. One did not need be an honest man when there was sport to be had in dishonesty. Eluding the standards of civility was most satisfying.

He was not satisfied. In fact, he was deeply troubled. Had he forced his affections on an unwilling woman the night before? Yes, Christine moaned and gasped as he touched her while they read, but she told him to stop. He did not. He did not stop until she propelled out of his lap as though he had burned her.

He had, the fire inside of each of them was spreading rapidly, but she resisted the flames. In fact, she doused them with the conviction of a bucket filled with ice water. But the embers still remained, orange and glowing, wanting nothing more than to be fed and brought to life.

He would leave her alone today. He wanted to give her time to think, and he wanted to give himself time to avoid the distrust in her eyes. He wanted to forget his dreams, his dreams of having her die when he touched her, when he took her roughly as they sobbed together. He sobbed because he loved her. She sobbed because she did not love him.

His touch bled her to death as the darkness consumed them. Their passionate words were forgotten forever when he slept alone, when his traitorous mind tortured him, taunted him, and destroyed him.

Who was he? Was he the monster who would force her to submit to him and kill her even as he loved her? Was he the man who could not allow their parting to be filled with tears and unfulfilled longing? Was he ghost destined to live in solitude? The murderer deserving swift justice? The boy wanting no more then to be held by his beautiful mother? Would he ever know?

* * *

Bathing too often was said to be the cause of insanity. It was written, it was read, and it was preached by parishioners and doctors alike. Was it true? She was not sure. She did not care. The world was filled with uninformed fools, ignorant ones at that. 

Sinking into the lavender scented water for the second day in a row, Christine let out a sigh. That warmth and steam caressed her skin, bringing a pleasant flush to her face as her lips relaxed in a soft smile.

Once she sank beneath the bubbles the frown returned. She had felt dirty. Filthy almost. If she had rolled in knee-deep mud with not a stitch of clothing she could not have felt less unclean.

Rubbing frantically at the sticky residue on the insides of her thighs she felt memories of the night before come back in flashes. Flashes of sin and debauchery. Flashes of betrayal, weakness, and shame.

She had never felt so alive, so filled with passion when he spoke to her those daring words of lust-filled desire. His hot tongue against her ear and neck made her legs weaken with need.

All night she dreamt of him. She had come to him, settling herself atop him as she clawed at his back and shoulders while thrusting her tongue in and out of his mouth in a suggestive rhythm. He had taken her, she begged him to. She pleaded huskily in his ear the most shameful prepositions!

Then he left her, and she saw the crying face of her husband. She saw the lifeless face of Joseph Buquet. The screams of the people in the audience permeated the air as they ran from the burning chandelier unleashed upon their innocent heads in a fit of rage. She saw him dragging her away, screaming at her, threatening her, howling at her like a wounded dog.

So much death. So much hate. How could she want him knowing of his crimes? How could she want him when she had Raoul?

Rising from the tub she dried herself off swiftly, her hair dripping down her back and onto the tiles below. Wiping the fading steam from the oak-framed mirror she glanced at her flushed face. She had what Madame Giry would call a healthy glow. It was a shame that the glow was one of a disgusting sickness of the mind that she wished away with all of the strength that she had.

She pulled on her robe and walked outside, looking this way and that before exiting the bathroom to make sure that Erik was nowhere in sight. She could not bear to look at him now. What could she say to erase what happened the night before?

A part of her looked to the window before her and thought of leaving. She should just go to see Madame Giry and stay with her as was planned. She could escape this waking nightmare, she could pull free from his grasp as she had last night, could she not?

Would he hurt her if she fled? Would he hunt her down and force her back to his home as he had done before, threatening the lives of others as he whipped her around like a rag doll while hurtling vicious insults at her?

Deciding once again to forsake a corset, she hastily dressed and prepared to head to Mme. Renault's home. She needed to know how Erik was able to obtain his home; she needed to know how much was known about him. Perhaps once she knew of Erik's habits and daily activities, she would plan her escape. She could not stay here, be it because of the danger or the temptation she could never know, but to remain in this prison of fear and desire was suffocating her, she could not do it any longer.

God knew she tried; she tried so hard to befriend him, to soften the treacherous memories of the past. She could not; she was not a sorceress or a healer. There was no cure for the pain of the heart. All wounds left scars, and some wounds were meant to gape open as reminders of past mistakes. She hated to leave Erik to bleed so fiercely, but she could not stay here any longer. She could not heal him as she and he both hoped.

* * *

Charles walked with an air of alarming urgency. He also had excessively loud; nasally breathing that was amplified when his steps became too excited for his tiny legs to handle gracefully. 

Adjusting his hat, he walked into the drawing room and cleared his throat twice. He had wished to attract Sofia's attention as well as clear the congestion in his throat. He was becoming worried about the ailment affecting his throat. Throat problems, though common, could imply serious physical illness. Sometimes they even implied certain death.

A minor bout of illness could bring about coughing and excess liquid in the lungs, but so could fateful diseases. He felt sweat break out on his forehead as he imagined himself dropping dead in the front hall in front of guests. Oh, how humiliating it would be! He would forever be the man who died in front of the nobility. Imagine if he fell into the potted plant that Sofia cherished so much? It was too horrible to even think about!

His worrisome thoughts were abated when Sofia raised her eyes and smiled sweetly.

"Yes, Charles?"

"There is someone here to see you, my lady." Bowing out awkwardly, Charles moved to the side and waved Christine into the room.

Christine marveled at the immaculate beauty of the room before her. It was distinctly feminine, but not girlish or garish. The violet walls were adorned with lovely paintings of clear skies and blue oceans. Lovely people walking hand-in-hand through lovely streets with looks of love upon their faces came alive. How Christine wanted to be one of the women in the pictures, free from all worldly cares as she walked arm and arm with a caring, passionate, good-natured man. Would the wind blow her hair about her face so freely and elegantly? Would the sky remain blue and the sun warm?

Sofia rose and welcomed Christine warmly. She was not expecting her. She had thought that their conversation at the house would be the last for quite some time. Her presence made her grow uneasy. Perhaps something was amiss with the masked lover? Perhaps Christine knew that Sofia had once been Erik's lover and wished to exchange acid-toned words of condemnation.

"I am so sorry to arrive so unexpectedly." Christine smiled weakly as she looked at the pale wooden furniture adorned with beige velvet. Such a warm, welcoming room.

"Oh, do not apologize." Waving her hand dismissively, Sofia walked over to the sofa and motioned for Christine to sit across from her.

For a moment the two women just sat before one another, their hands fidgeting with their hair and skirts as they settled onto the sofas.

"Would you like some tea?" Sofia inquired before standing to look for Charles who had long since left the room.

"I would love some, thank you." Sofia rose to find Charles and inform him before returning to sit across from the girl whose face held so many secrets. She was so very young, a mere girl emerging from childhood. She had been like that once, so innocent and naïve, so confused by the directions which the world pulled her in.

"Well dear, what brings you here today?"

"I thought I should come by and thank you for allowing me to stay here." Christine knew not what else to say. She did, however, feel it most imperative to thank the kindly lady for her discretion.

"I am not really in a position to allow or disallow anything. Erik is the current owner of the farmhouse, he is entitled to entertain guests." She knew that should she object to an affair occurring near her front door she could order Erik off of her property and demand that he seek lodgings elsewhere, but she was not one to judge others on their adult escapades. She was neither a puritan nor a hypocrite.

"Yes," Christine continued carefully, "but you could express your discomfort, and I am appreciative that you have not."

"Oh, my dear," Sofia laughed lightly as she accepted her tea cup from Charles trembling hands, "I am not uncomfortable in the least. I can only hope that it is you who is not feeling out of sorts." She raised her eyes to the young girl across from her who studied the white porcelain cup with distracted curiosity.

"What do you mean?" Christine lowered her glass and looked up at the motherly eyes that softly scanned her face.

"I am not one to pry into the affairs of others," Sofia immediately regretted her use of the word 'affair,' "but I want to be sure that any…activity taking place in or near my home is safe." She hated herself for being so distrustful of Erik, but he was still very much a stranger to her. She knew his body, she knew how he moved and how he touched a woman, but his mind was a mystery. Like a dark, endless cavern, the secrets held in his mind were hidden far beyond the reaches of her casual questioning and friendly conversation. Even his eyes were forbidding, the pain and longing in them almost staggering to behold.

"Oh, I can assure you, Madame, I am in no danger." She lied once more. She had not even thought it a lie until the words escaped, tainting the air with dishonesty.

"Well, by danger I do not mean physical harm, Mademoiselle Giry."

"I do not think you need be concerned." Christine set her cup down on the saucer and smiled to soften the blow of her cold words. They sat for a moment in silence. Silence gave time for reflection, and it allowed one to recover their thoughts, especially when they ran so wildly.

"I shall take your word for it. Oh, and you may call me Sofia."

"Thank you. Call me Christine as well." Sofia was either a nosy busybody or an intuitive woman. That was most certainly unsettling.

For a few second there were no sounds except for the harsh clanging of porcelain against porcelain as they laid their cups on the saucers.

"How long has Erik been here?" Setting down her cup and leaning back against the sofa, Christine saw Sofia eye her thoughtfully as she mentally calculated the time that Erik had been silently haunting her peaceful home.

"Oh, a few months. He says very little about himself. I am not sure where he lived before, I never wanted to ask."

"I see. He is a secretive man." Christine was wistful as she looked out the window as the clouds covered the sun, leaving the sunny room in shade.

"A mysterious one indeed. Have you an idea of where he lived before?" If Christine was his paramour they would have had to have met somewhere.

"We…" she paused suddenly. She almost said that they had first become acquainted at the Opera Populaire. That would have been most unwise. "We met many years ago, I was very young. He knew my father, and as I became older, our relationship changed." It was mostly true, only the times, places, and people had changed, the story remained the same.

"You must have known him when you were but a child." Had Erik taken a romantic interest in a woman he had known since she was a child and he a young man?

"He never became interested in me until I was much older." Christine knew that she was saying too much, but an impartial mind was what she needed now. Besides, she was still being sufficiently vague, was she not?

"My late husband. He and I met when I was 18, he was 42." Sofia cleared her throat and shifted in her seat. "At first, I thought that an older suitor was a disconcerting reality, one I was far from comfortable with. He was attractive, and wealthy, but I knew little else about him. It was only after we were married for a while that I realized that older lovers are intelligent, caring, and often times more experienced in the ways of love." Sofia watched in mild amusement as Christine's face turned a lovely shade of pink at her innuendo.

"Your husband sounds like a good man." She thought of Raoul, he too, was a good man. A man who was being betrayed by his wife in both body and mind.

"He was wonderful. Not perfect!" She chuckled softly, fingering her glass gently. "But," she continued, "no man, or woman for that matter, is ever perfect."

"I am so sorry that he is no longer with you." Christine felt a deep loss for the woman at that moment; she seemed so strong, so alive for someone who had lost someone so close to her heart. Christine had never been able to get past the loss of her father; she had never been able to accept death as a reality beyond her control and comprehension.

"Yes, I am sorry as well. However, we must accept death as a part of life, even though we never forget and we never stop hurting, we must learn to live again."

So much pain had ravaged Christine when she was so young. So much loss had made her so fearful of being alone, forgotten by a world that ignored the pleas of a broken child to allow her father to live.

"You do not need to talk about him if it upsets you." Christine saw a distant gaze creep in Sofia's coffee-brown eyes as she looked out at the window, the sun had began to shine through again.

"Oh no, actually, it is comforting to speak of Marius."

"Oh, well then. Tell me about him." It had been so long since Christine had engaged in idle chatter with another woman. Although the conversation ahead was filled with memories, sadness, and talk of love, it was refreshing to breathe freely without the weight of guilt or shame closing in.

Sofia sighed softly as the rays of sun grazed her face. If they were to walk outside and to the river the water would shimmer like liquid silver as it rippled gently in the breeze. On warm days such as these, families of ducks would often settle upon the calm waters, flitting and swimming about with joyful abandon. It was such a pleasure to watch them in their natural simplicity. It was such a contrast to the troublesome thoughts that pervaded the weary soul.

"I think we should move outside, it's such a lovely day. It would be a shame to remain indoors." Sofia stood, straightening her skirts as she walked towards the French doors that led to the quaint veranda. The breeze was slight and warm; too often a cool breeze would seep beneath thin fabrics and make the veranda chilly and uncomfortable.

Christine sat down gingerly, adjusting her blue silk skirts as she did so. The waters atop the river shone in the sunlight, the glare a pearly black that moved softly beneath the wispy touch of the wind.

Clearing her throat once more, Sofia began her tale. She had not realized how much she loved the freedom to simply sit and converse about all of lifes intricacies, be they pleasant or tumultuous. Her husband had shared in her love of thoughtful conversation, and although the prospect of marrying him had at first been a frightening one, it had turned to something wonderful. Looking to the young, unsure woman in front of her, she began to speak of the strange journey she embarked on so many years ago.

* * *

_It was a quiet night, but something felt amiss. Sofia could not identify what was perplexing her so, but she felt a deep discontent welling up within her. Nothing could distract her mind from the troublesome thoughts._

_It was a Sunday night, and she had allowed a relaxing day pass her by languorously. There were no balls or parties to attend, no prospective suitors to acknowledge with polite refinement and blank gestures. The giggling voices of overzealous debutantes were not ringing in her ears. _

_Sunday nights were her most cherished nights. Ever since she and her family had moved to Paris from Siena, Italy, the haughtiness of French society had worn on her. The cheerful voices masked contempt and jealousy, as did the painted smiles and frowning eyes. All of life was but a competition, and all competitors ruthless in their resolve to lie, smile, and bat their eyelashes to victory. _

_The girls her age seemed petty, the boys insincere and shallow. People looked over one another as though they were purchasing horses. Fine, thoroughbred horses perhaps, but animals none the less. _

_Yet tonight, on the night of the week where she should have been most content, was the night she felt most uneasy. Something was wrong, there was a startling change in the winds._

_She came to realize her greatest fears were at once realized when her father came into the drawing room and happily declared with a vivacious smile and wildly gesturing hands that she was to be married. "A most excellent match, a most excellent match indeed!" He proclaimed loudly, his voice rising to heights of euphoria has his proud almond-eyes shone with victory. _

_He ran his hand through his trim gray beard as his plump belly shook with joviality. All she could do was stare, her mouth agape, her eyes filling with tears. _

_It was as though her father was celebrating the sale of an expensive antique to a most willing buyer. He was not a mercenary man on principle, but matters of business were most important to him, and the only other times his elation shone so brightly was when he made a handsome profit. The flesh trade seemed a lucrative business with eternal rewards. _

_"Do you remember Marius Renault, Sofie? I saw him at the game hall tonight, my, he said the most wonderful things about you! He would be most honoured if you would become his betrothed. The man has a title, a fortune, and a respectable name!" His smile remained, as did her frown. The colour slowly drained out of her tan skin, leaving it an odd mix of white and yellow. Her pallor suggested she was about to be sick all over the navy blue Persian carpet. She had to press a hand to her chest to ensure that her heart was still beating._

_"Sofie?" There was no sound but the blood pounding between her ears in time with her wilting heart. _

_"Sofia!" His smile faded. She simply stood up and walked from the room, her shoulders slumped, her eyes burning with unshed tears. She was too weak to even argue, too distraught to even speak. Her slow walk of defeat spoke loudly enough, her father stormed from the room, ranting and raving in Italian about the lack of graciousness in his family. She ignored him as she ascended the stairs to her bedroom. _

_She knew Marius Renault; she had seen him watch her at the Dupoix's ball. His light blue eyes followed her every move, and when she would turn to meet his gaze, he would often be so bold as to wink at her, his lips turning upwards in a mischievous smirk that made him look half his age. A trim but fit man, he stood at a greater height than most and had a grace in his movements that was soothing to behold._

_His skin was quite pale, but he did not look ill or boyish. He kept his hair shorter than most men, the sandy blonde thick yet shorn. His most striking feature was his eyes, those pale blue eyes that bore into ones soul. With one glance she felt nude, his deep orbs slowly removing her clothing piece by piece, even as his long-fingered hands remained around a crystal brandy glass._

_A notorious gambler, he seemed a bit of a rogue. He would surely keep mistresses and anger wealthy gentleman at cards! Yet, since she was a woman, she would be expected to eagerly take his affluent Baronet hand and passively except any ill treatment with a wide smile and child-like indifference. Such was the way of the world. _

_They were married within three weeks of her father's announcement. Her parents believed that long engagements were superfluous. They had been married within two weeks of meeting one another, they claimed that life was short, precious, and unpredictable, and decisions were a luxury not afforded to most people. Careful consideration was wasteful. _

_Her home had grown silent even as her muffled sobs escaped into the night, swept away by the moonlight. There was no joy to be had in looking out at the stars as they shed light on the Parisian streets below. There was no joy to be had as one was thrust unceremoniously into adulthood. Joy was not a luxury afforded to most people. _

_She had acknowledged Marius's comments and gentle bantering with polite reservation. Rarely would she meet his eyes for fear of their seductive depths. Each time he reached for her hand or let his fingers graze her hair she would pull away swiftly, masking her fear and discomfort with a look of false feminine propriety._

_The church ceremony was the first time she allowed him to kiss her, and kiss her he had. At the time she was repulsed, horrified even! He parted her lips with the tip of his tongue and held her cheek firmly as he briefly explored the depths of her mouth, inhaling the scent of his luscious young bride. He kissed her like a lover would. In front of her family. In front of God! Damn it all to hell, she liked it; she melted into him even as she pushed him away in her mind. That gambler, that rogue, that shady creature with the icy blue eyes was now her husband! He was nearly old enough to be her father! _

_The reception had been lovely, and her first dance with him was pleasant enough even as she trembled in his able arms. She felt as though her body and mind were no longer her own, she swore to herself that she would hate him, but as he held her, she felt safe. She fought against herself as her arms crept around his neck, she fought as her lips accepted his tender, she fought as her mind tried to ignore his past. Her mind screamed no, but her will collapsed as he hands traveled slowly down her back and grasped her hips firmly. _

_She had never felt more fearful than she had that night. Sitting in her white silk negligee she dutifully waited for her husband as she trembled violently, her stomach leaping with trepidation. Her lower back ached from the tremors of her body, the shivering would not cease. She had heard so much about the terrors and pains of the wedding night. The bleeding, the nudity, the complete and utter submission to the will of a man whom she hardly knew! _

_He had come for her that night, but they had not made love. He had held her as he pulled her thick, dark hair to one side and gently kissed her neck. He had shushed her silently, asking her to stop trembling, reassuring her softly. He had told her that when he first saw her he knew he had to have her, she consumed his every thought, dream, and fantasy. _

_She remembered relaxing in his arms as he held her. He had smelled so wonderful, so very masculine and fresh, so comforting. His red silk dressing gown had felt so soft and cool against her flushed skin, which had turned a hot shade of pink from her excessive worry. _

_They laid together that night, just talking. He did not frantically tear at her clothing or have her swiftly then return to his room. He pulled back the soft yellow coverlet and pressed her against his chest. Her hands curled into fists, her knuckles barely grazing his flesh. He played with her fingers gently, telling her that they would not make love until she wanted to. _

_In the days after their marriage, she felt as though this strange, mysterious man was very much in love with her. It was alarming; she did not yet share in his affections. His gambling worried her, as did his social carelessness and outspoken politics, but mild affection for him grew more and more each day. _

_His lingering stares and gentle touches spoke of the kind of reverance only present in poems and fairy tales. He had whisked her away from her old life, and although she resisted, she felt as precious as a diamond when he looked at her. _

_When they began making love, after he allowed her nearly a month to prepare herself, she felt herself falling as fiercely in love with him as he was with her. _

_She had come to him one night while he sat in his study, a glass of brandy in front of him catching the glare of the moonlight. He looked wonderful, his shirtsleeves were rumpled and his face somber. He had lost money the night before. She had wished to speak to him of her concerns about his activities, but felt such a conversation would be best had at another time. Tonight, she wanted to be his wife in every way._

_It was truly beautiful. He was attentive, passionate, daring, and sensuous. Every touch, every kiss, every caress was thoughtful. His invasion had not been nearly as abominable as she expected, which he later attributed to her being an avid horsewoman in her youth, which she was. _

_The art of sex was one they explored together in greater depth than most. He often coaxed her gently to unleash her darkest desires and forsake the values of propriety that made her shameful of an act that was both natural and beautiful. A true libertine was her husband!_

_And a libertine he remained through the many difficulties they had faced, and there had been many. They had had many an exasperated fall-out over the game rooms, as well as over his consumption of brandy. Their age and cultural differences made some situations difficult to overcome, but each and every night, no matter what argument started the day; he would hold her against him while they slept, thanking her for taming this wild man. _

_During her difficult childbirths he had been nearly insane with terror, his eyes burning blue fire as he fought through the midwives to commit the forbidden act of holding his wife as she sputtered and choked pitifully as her body collapsed beneath the weight of sickness and exhaustion. She was weak, so very weak. Even as a menagerie of female voices screamed for him to leave her, he did not, he held her hand tightly, wiping the sweat from her face as she lulled on the brink on consciousness. _

_She had survived; he would not have been able to if she had not. When Marius's heart became weak, her broken bedside pleas could not force him into consciousness. Never had darker days descended upon her, never had life seemed so bleak and empty. Despite her children, never had she felt so alone. _

* * *

"You see, Christine," she wiped at her eyes quickly, willing the tears to dry, "there is no pain more ravaging, more consuming, and more heartbreaking than the pain of being alone."

Christine sat back, her eyes moist. Her heart beat shallowly in her chest with a deep sense of loss for this woman who was naught but a stranger mere hours ago. All human beings shared pain, loneliness, and hope.

Perhaps it was only hope that kept Erik's heart beating each and every moment. Perhaps it was only the foolish wishes of a battered boy and broken man that allowed him to rise each morning and look at the face that made the world turn from him. Perhaps only hope kept him from withering at the sight of the man in the mirror who murdered and threatened out of hate. Perhaps only the hope of redeeming love kept him from submitting to the hate that closed around his heart, blackening it and making it weep tears of anguish.

The savage heart of the savage man, the man whom she wanted to hate, and would hate to love. Her heart belonged to another man, a man whom slipped from her mind when she looked into the eyes of the beast. The tortured, brutalized beast. He had spirited her off to his underworld in the sun, and she wanted nothing more than to leave,yet the thought of leaving made her chest ache with the longing to return.

Christine and Sofia exchanged goodbyes, the silence between them speaking a truth too great to acknowledge with mere words. Christine had long since stopped believing in fate, but she knew that meeting this woman and hearing her story was destiny, a jarring destiny.

* * *

He saw her as she drifted across the grass, her feet seemingly gliding above the dark green earth that slept beneath the cover of night. The shadows covered her body, her face was shrouded in blackness, but still she glowed. Like an angel she moved. Like an angel she left him. 

He had not seen her when he came home, she had seemingly disappeared, but now here she was, walking outside with not a care in the world. She was planning her escape he was sure. Her reaction to his touch the night before had frightened her. She could not have feared him so much had he struck instead of read her erotic passages while caressing her skin with his hungry mouth.

She wore no cloak to protect her lithe frame from the cold wind of the night, but she walked further and further from him, her face turned upwards and her arms crossed across her chest. She preferred to stand in the cold than enter his home and see the monster that nearly ripped her away from her husband. Only when she was enchanted by his touch and voice did she let him hold her, the rest of the time she despised him. The knowledge tore into his heart like a blade.

He walked out behind her, watching as she paused and looked up at the moonlight that left a silvery glow across her skin. He saw her back tremble slightly. Why was she trembling? Was it out of disgust? Fear? Shame?

He stalked towards her slowly until he was but mere feet from her.

"Wandering around at such a late hour, my dear?"


	17. The Man Behind the Monster

**Chapter 17: The Man Behind the Monster**

**A/N: Thank you all for the reviews, I cannot begin to tell you how much I enjoy reading them. There are some major Susan Kay references ahead; I am not the creator of Erik's colourful history. I think you guys will like this chapter, but let me know what you think! **

"Wandering around at such a late hour, my dear?"

Christine was not at all surprised to hear that silky voice barking out at her in the darkness. He was never far away. Whether he be standing next to her or lingering in the deep recesses of her mind, he was always there, peering out at her with darkened eyes. She could no longer sleep soundly without seeing his shadows slink away silently in her dreams. Even when she could not see him standing before her, she felt pieces of him lingering all around.

Now he stood behind her, an invisible sneer plastered on his stoic features; she could feel his eyes burning into her even as she faced away from him. The gentle breeze swept across her face, only unsettling the wispy hairs framing her face and ticking her cheeks. Like soft, sensuous, and forbidden music, the night air caressed her skin. The heat of uncertainty began to raise, her skin warmed with excitement at his voice. It was only her and he, together and alone in the night. It was dangerous to be left so defenseless, but the barriers that lay between them were slowly crumbling even as she fought to keep them tall, strong, and forbidding. The stones kept falling to the ground, and with each agonizing minute, he marched closer and closer to the fragile sanctuary that contained her.

"Would you prefer I spend all my time inside patiently awaiting your return, Erik?" She turned to glance at him before turning back to the breeze, her shoulders tensing under his gaze. The shadows of the trees made his face difficult to see, the black masking his golden skin. Darkness covered him like a second mask; only it was far more alluring, and far more threatening.

"Have you not heard stories of the tragic fate that has befallen many young, beautiful woman who wander alone at night?" He stepped towards her slowly, but she never turned to him.

"There is no one else here but us, I am not concerned." She was unsure as to whether or not his ominous warning was one of a teasing nature or a serious one. His feet continued to move across the grass, rustling the dry leaves and cracking the tiny twigs as he came to stand beside her.

For minutes there was nothing but silence as they stared out at the river. The moon was reflected on the black waters that glistened with silver as they rippled calmly. There were no sounds save for their even breathing. Not even crickets or birds had the audacity to intrude on a moment of tense, yet peaceful silence. In the world, there was no one but them.

"I spoke with Sofia today." With a small sigh Christine sank to the ground, it was dry and cool against her palms as she spread her skirts around her.

"Oh?" Erik was not sure whether to be uneasy or relieved. A little company besides himself could serve to make their tryst easier. Perhaps the company of an approving and kind woman would ease Christine's fears of remaining a willing participant in this elongated clandestine meeting.

"It was…nice." She paused for a moment, looking up at him as he stood staring out at the waters, the reflection of the tiny waves moving across the porcelain concealing his face from the world. "I am glad to have met her."

"As am I." He hoped with smug satisfaction that his vague remark would begin to sew the seeds of jealousy within his stoic angel.

"Are you going to sit down?" Her invitation came as a great surprise to them both. Christine was tired of running. All she had done was run from him through her sarcasm and dismissive remarks. All he had done in response was cover her with his ever-present shadows, taunting her even in her dreams. If the Phantom was indeed no more than a man, she would learn to see him as one before beginning anew her life with Raoul. A mere mortal was easier to escape than a ghost.

Pausing for a moment to stare down at the expectant woman at his feet, Erik lowered himself to the ground, leaving appropriate distance between their bodies. The water began to lap silently against the shore, but still no other sounds invaded their tranquil refuge.

"Erik?" Never had she felt so unsure, even in those months of confusion when Erik first appeared to her as a love-besotted man capable of unspeakable crimes, she had never felt so exposed and vulnerable. Her own feelings tortured her endlessly; she knew not her heart or her mind anymore. It would seem that she never had.

"Yes?" He dug his leather-clad heels into the soft earth, not caring about the expensive material that he was soiling. He felt nervous, unsure. Together with his angel in peaceful solitude his heart should have leapt with joy, but he was frightened. Could they be together like this? A man and a woman marveling at the beauty of the outside world with no thoughts of darkness to blacken their spirits?

"I want to know who you are. I feel as though…" Her words faltered as she absently smoothed her skirts. "I feel as though I know you, but I do not know anything about you. Now that we're together like this, we should talk to one another as people. No lies or stories, no romantic songs or…questionable book passages. Just words, does it not feel as though I'm but a stranger to you?"

She briefly met his eyes before turning to look back at the river, her brows knitted together fretfully with discomfort and uncertainty.

"Why speak of dark and unhappy memories?" If she knew him as just the battered and beaten boy that he was, she would surely grow to see him as only a pathetic creature abused beyond all reason in both mind and body. To be humbled was to fall, and had fallen far enough since his days as the mighty ruler of his opulent kingdom.

"The past makes us who we are, please tell me about yours." She could no longer go on living with a spirit who drew her to him with burning touches and lyrical endearments.

"You know not what you ask of me." He felt his voice begin to break as the forbidden images that he tried so hard to destroy leapt to the forefront of his mind. Pictures of a young boy cowering beneath a wooden club and weeping underneath worn cotton blankets in a cold, unfeeling home played vividly in his mind's eye. The despair and shame returned slowly, descending upon him like a concrete block.

Christine felt a fierce impulse to clutch his hand and link her fingers through his. He sat so still, like the statue of a fallen angel, his rage and anguish pouring out of him despite his stony silence.

"Please tell me, Erik." Her eyes shone with encouragement even has her hands remained folded in her lap. An unfeeling, lifeless gesture of passivity.

He remained still, his hands flat upon the grass and his black trouser-clad legs outstretched in front of him. His body looked relaxed from afar, but his muscles were tightly clenched, his back as rigid and taut as a bowstring.

It seemed like hours of endless silence. They waited for the tension to dissipate and float off over the river, disappearing beneath the watery depths like the sand washed away from the shore by the movement of the waves. If only the wind and the water could erode away years of regret and pain.

"I hope you are comfortable." He murmured quietly, more to himself than to her. "For you shall be sitting here for a while yet."

The first cricket sounded, the musical chirping adding a lonely song to the calm of the night. A fitting aria for a tragic opera.

"I'm not going anywhere." And she wasn't, even as her mind told her to run once more just as it had told her that morning, her body stayed rooted to the ground like the ancient trees casting shadows over the thick grass.

For the second time that day, a wounded person shared with her a deeply personal tale of loss.

* * *

"I was born in Rouen." All autobiographies began with a birth, and a birth always occurred in a city that would forever remain in the heart of one who took their first breath on its soil. His was no different, only he spoke of Rouen with no wistful longing. It had been months, possibly even years since he dared let his waking mind revisit that city. He went there in his dreams more often than not, and never was his journey a pleasant one.

"My father passed away before I was born, which was simply a perverse turn of fortune for him, although he'll never know that." His throat moved harshly beneath his skin as he spoke. He kept his eyes on the rippling silver waters, never looking to the silent woman beside him.

"He was a stone mason who met with an accident. Accidents are common in that occupation; it is not the safest of jobs. Needless to say, my mother's excitement over the impending birth of her first and only child was destroyed."

Christine found her hand moving of its own volition towards his own. It had curled into a tight fist and hung stiffly by his side. She pulled hers back once more; he had never noticed it move at all.

"My mother had faced a year of grief. Her parents passed away from cholera, she then lost her husband. All she had to look forward to was a child, a normal, happy child who could be coddled and admired by friends and neighbors. My parents were attractive people, and no doubt she was expecting an equally beautiful baby."

"Erik…" Even as his chest began to rise and fall harshly with his labored breaths, she could not touch him.

"When I was born…" He paused for a moment, clearing his throat and smoothing his jacket. "When I was born, she was…she was unhappy. She was horrified. You may not believe this, but this," he pointed towards his mask, "this was much worse."

"My skin was much thinner, the red much angrier. I suffered a lot of infections and irritation, some of which would drive me to madness. She made me a mask when I was only days old. She could not bear to see a child that was imperfect. I think that, perhaps, she believed that after all she suffered, she deserved a perfect child."

The wind began to whistle while the cricket sang its melancholy tune.

"As I grew older, she often had a priest come to the home. I was never allowed to leave; she said that people would be…unkind. Not that she herself was kind, but over time she came to tolerate me instead of loathe my presence. This priest, Father Mansart was his name, was the one who introduced me to music. For that I am grateful to him, and for that and that alone."

"He, my mother, and my mother's close friend Marie Perrault, bought me all sorts of books and science tools to occupy my time, of which I had plenty. I even had a tutor come to visit who acknowledged that I was abnormally astute for a boy my age. I could not enter his school though, no. My face was just too horrific, they said. It would make the other students uncomfortable." His voice was laced with dangerous bitterness, bitterness coated in pain that would never fade with the passage of time.

"I passed the days as best I could. Sometimes I would take apart the clocks and reassemble them. If I could not make them work once more I would be inconsolable. I had a violent temper, similar to my mother's. I suffered under hers for far too long, and even as I watched the bruises and cuts heal, I still wanted her to love me. My god, I wanted nothing more than for that woman to hold me and kiss me. I always felt so bereft, to have never had even the slightest touch of affection. I would do many things to try to make her acknowledge me. I stole things, I broke things, I played music loudly when she begged for silence. I simply wanted her to know that I was there."

Christine felt the beginnings of burning tears, but blinked rapidly to cease their descent.

"Marie, she was a kind woman, but she was frightened of me. She probably believed that somehow, someway, I had been sired by some spirit of evil. She was a pious woman, but never did she shun me or my mother as so many others did."

He paused once more, clearing his throat again before speaking.

"My greatest memory of her, and quite possibly the worst memory of my life, asides from events occurring more recently, still plagues me to this day."

Ignoring her resolve to never allow him to touch her skin or initiate touching him, Christine placed her tiny hand atop his. The muscles were taut beneath his skin. The veins bulged with tension and she stroked them softly. He glanced down at her hand, but his mind did not stray from the darkness of his thoughts.

"It was my birthday, I was 8. My mother had never had any kind of celebration before, nor did I want one, yet Marie thought it necessary that I be given some kind of loving attention. When my mother asked what I wanted, I asked her to kiss me. She never had, and I wanted her to. She cried. I asked her, and she sobbed like a child! She couldn't, she said, she just couldn't. The thought repulsed her so much, she could not bear the thought of showing any kind of love to her imperfect, ugly child!"

Christine tried to weave her fingers through his, but he did not even feel her touching him, so lost was he in his anger.

"I went upstairs and stayed there for hours. We had this dog. God, what would I have done without that dog? Her name was Sasha, and I just held onto her and sobbed for hours. I would never cry in front of my mother, never."

"When I finally went downstairs after hearing my mother scream herself hoarse that I was wasting her and Marie's time by sulking, I decided to leave the mask on the floor. I hated that thing, I wanted to smash it against the wooden floors and watch it break into thousands of hateful porcelain pieces! I did not though; I just laid it down softly, knowing that I would be wearing it again soon."

"I remember the looks of horror on both of their faces when I stood in the doorway. They looked like terrified paintings; their faces were just so…ugly! Like I was some kind of hideous monster who invaded their home and spoiled their dinner!"

His voice rose to that familiar contemptuous bark. If she had not witnessed the naked pain in his eyes she would have been frightened by his bitter scowl and rough tone.

"My mother asked me over and over again to put the mask back on. I refused, I just could not understand why I had to wear one, no one else had to. Never had I seen another person walking around with a heavy, cold piece of plaster on one side of their face. I had never been allowed to live normally, and I just felt so much hate. Why? Why was I so different? Why was I something to be ashamed of? Why did I have to hide my face in my own home? I asked kept asking why, screaming it, yelling it!"

"Why, of all people in the world, did the loving and caring God choose me to live trapped inside an ugly face, in an ugly house, with a woman who could never love her own child? Why did I have to be the one who was the outcast, the ferocious and frightening creature? Why did I need to hide from "unkind" people whom I had never even seen or spoken to? Why did I need to be hated when I had done nothing to deserve it other then survive inside my mother's womb?"

"Well Christine, she showed me why." The cricket stopped, the sad song fading away as the wind played its angry music and swayed the gentle trees with its wraith.

"I still remembering seeing my face in the mirror for the first time. I cannot even forget the sounds. There was screaming, I know I screamed. I know that Marie screamed, she begged and pleaded for my mother to stop. My mother screamed, her voice so filled with rage I did not even recognize it. All the voices merged into one agonizing holler of anguish. I will never forget that searing, horrid sound pounding within my ears."

"I beat that mirror until it shattered, my arms were just rivers of blood." He examined the faint scars adorning his wrists and forearms. They had faded over time, but still the jagged white lesions stood out from his tan skin, a painful reminder of a most painful revelation. He began biting out his words out as though they were bitter and rotten fruit.

Soft, pale fingers gently stroked along the scars, but he did not notice.

"I still did not believe that the monster I saw was me. I became fascinated with mirrors, hoping to find out what magic my mother used to frighten me so, to punish me for upsetting her. I knew, I knew what I was, but I could not face it. I could not admit to being that monster staring back at me! I used to have torturous, compulsive impulses to touch the flesh beneath the mask, but I could not do it." His voice seemed to break for a moment, but steadied itself once more.

"When I began leaving my house at night, trying to hide in the shadows while pretending I was a normal boy, that was when I realized that I was that monster."

"I grew so angry. I hated Father Mansart for telling me to pray for peace of mind after he forbade me to go outside, I hated my mother for keeping me hidden, I hated and hated and hated until I could not bear the hate any longer!"

"My mother would go out to church and leave me alone, and soon she met a man. I believe his first name was Etienne, but his surname escapes me. He was a doctor, a young one at that. I hated him too, I never knew why. I thought that his taking my mother's fleeting attentions from me was the reason at first, but something about him frightened me. I asked my mother to stop seeing him, demanding it almost, in a petulant and childish way."

"One night though, a night burned into my memory despite my attempts to forget it, I met with the man."

I had let Sasha outside, and when I went to retrieve her, some neighborhood boys had come into the yard. They had been circling the house like vultures for months, wanting to catch a glimpse of the son of Satan. That night, that night they had luck on their side, for they saw me plain as day."

"I don't remember the names that they called me, or the names that they called my mother, but I do remember their high-pitched battle cries. Like miniature soldiers they were, little missionaries ridding the world of evil. A few were much older and larger than I. The children tended to remain in the back, heckling without involving themselves physically."

"It started off with taunts and insults. They asked me to remove the mask, I refused. They insulted my masculinity, which is what rambunctious boys do. A battle of wits ensued, but I was frightened, there were so many of them. Sasha was growling and snarling, but I held her to my chest, I knew that if they were given the chance they would hurt her. Her entire body was on fire, sharing in my fear and my rage."

"Finally, one brave ruffian came over, and he caught my left jaw with a hard hit. I was not expecting it, but I did not fall. I was large and tall for my age, and rather strong, but I did end up dropping Sasha. After that, all of it just a mixture of colours and sounds."

More wind howled. More leafs rustled. The earth grew cold.

"Do you know how it feels when you are falling, Christine? Have you ever tumbled out of control downwards? That is how I felt that night, like I was careening down the side of a mountain. My body fell this way and that, never could I find my footing, and my mind could not grasp the danger I was in. It was though I was denying to myself that this attack was occurring, that I was in danger of being beaten to death!"

She squeezed his hand tightly, feeling the sweat pour off of his palm.

"When the commotion became too thunderous, the boys simply ran into the night, disappearing like rodents into the crevices of the surrounding woods. I stood and picked up Sasha, but she had long since stopped breathing. Her body was angled in such a way…"

He intertwined his fingers with Christine's and inhaled and exhaled deeply, his eyes never leaving the river.

"I went inside, and all I could hear was a steady drone in my ears. It was as though a thousand bees were flying around me, surrounding me until I could hear nothing but their infernal buzzing. There was a face I had not seen before. A handsome, careless face. He wore an expression of fascination as he plucked the mask away as though it were no more then a ball of bothersome lint on a lapel. I felt like I was being stripped nude in front of thousands, paraded about like an animal."

"Blood was just pouring from my side, and I collapsed on the wooden floor bonelessly. All the while, this man just kept prodding at my face with his finger, poking it as though he expected it to melt or burst into flame at his touch. His eyes, so inquisitive, like he was looking upon a rare and unusual insect."

"Marie had called him. He had not been seen my mother for weeks, but he had been concerned when Marie informed him that strange things were happening with my mother. Strange things of which I was the cause, of course. And I was, indeed, the cause. When strange things happen, I am often responsible!"

He broke into an awkward laugh, one that softened the tension, but did not ease the pain lingering in the air.

"As I laid on the couch falling in and out of consciousness while he stitched my side…"

"What happened to your side?" She spoke for the first time since his tale began.

"Oh, I was stabbed." That was another scar that existed to remind him of the kindness of strangers.

He felt hands begin to gently pull his white shirtsleeves from his trousers, slowly and gently, as though his body were as fragile as glass. He made no move to stop the material from being lifted to expose the bare skin of his ribs and stomach. The night air felt cool against his hot flesh, the tiny beads of sweat drying as the warm breeze blew them softly from his skin. Her fingers barely touched him, but glided gracefully upwards, holding the thin material in their grasp.

The wind caressed the naked skin on his back and traveled upwards to circle the underside of his chest as Christine held the shirt up to just beneath his arm. In the darkness it was difficult to see the smooth line of raised, white tissue that marred his golden skin just below his ribcage.

He let out a tortured breath that almost sounded like a sob as her fingers stroked the scar gently. Tears began to well up in her eyes as she felt the rough skin beneath the pads of her fingertips. He had not asked for that, he had done nothing to deserve such a sadistic, cruel, and cowardly attempt on his life!

He clasped her gently stroking fingers in his hand and held it, his grip strong. He held fast to her hand, seemingly afraid that she would pull away at any moment.

"He…he told my mother to send me to an asylum. She had threatened me with it before, but her threats were empty. He told her that it would be best for me, best for her as well. He warned that if I stayed, she was in danger. He was right about that. I knew that if I stayed, something would happen, something far worse than what had occurred mere minutes ago."

"That night I left. I woke up, dressed, and simply took off into the night, much like a rodent myself. I did it for my mother, mostly. Even though she did not love me, I loved her, and I could not bear the thought of her being attacked on account of my face."

Christine filled with rage at Erik's defense of his mother. How could anyone love someone who abused them so? How could one protect and make sacrifices for their tormentor?

"I was taken in by a traveling Gypsy fair. Oh, they saw in me a modest goldmine. I did not disappoint. Do you know how many people paid to see me, Christine? Do you know how much a glimpse of my face cost?" His anger rose again, his eyes burning with a fire not matched by any other raging inferno.

"You should feel honored," he continued bitingly, "you saw for free what others had to pay for."

She sat in silence, hurt by his callousness, but not willing to let the story go untold for a minute longer.

"I was an attraction of epic proportions. The Devil's Child, they called me. I was, however, an uncooperative display. I would often protest and struggle, I once even committed the terrible folly of asking for clean clothes. I had to wear the same worn pants for days on end, never having the luxury of a shirt, not even on the coldest of nights. Javert – he was my 'keeper' you see – said that material made the floggings less painful, and pain produced submission. Logical, is it not?"

"Erik…" She nearly wept at the thought of a frightened, partly unclothed child being beaten and whipped for no other reason then that he craved dignity.

"No one had ever touched me unless it was to beat me." His hand clenched around hers even more tightly, causing her to wince in pain.

"Javert, he was impressed with my talents, but never did he relent in his "taming" of the monster. He, he even made…sexual remarks towards me." His throat moved under his skin once more as he choked on the wretched words and haunting memory.

Christine nearly gasped in shock, such things were unheard of! Men lusting for men was a strange idea in itself, but a man lusting for a BOY? What kind of world was Erik thrust into? She felt her face redden at his perverse allusion.

"He never did anything, but he wanted to. He said as much. I was also accused of trying to rape a young Gypsy girl who had fallen and twisted her ankle. I only wished to help her up, but she screamed so loudly, and with such fear! I had intended to run away, but in time. I wanted to plan an elaborate escape, unfortunately that did not come to pass. Or perhaps it is fortunate that it did not."

He relaxed his hand and Christine let her fingers gently stroke up and down his index finger.

"One night, I endured a most brutal beating from Javert. Ballet dancers from the Opera Populaire had come to witness the spectacle, our lovely Antoinette Giry being one of them. A guardian angel of sorts, she was."

"There was such a deep sadness in her eyes when she saw me, not once did she tremble or shudder at the sight of my face. She only grew horrified when that wooden club came down on my back over and over again."

His fingers began to relax even as the muscles in his jaw clenched tightly. Her fingers moved between his, stroking the cold flesh, urging it to warm once more.

"People are but animals, you see. They…they watch…they watch others suffer and they do nothing. They simply stare, some even laugh. Could it be that they are uncomfortable or upset, or perhaps they are simply content that they are looking into the cage from the outside? Only in her eyes did I see…_something._ Something that was not amusement, or horror, or fear. Something that was deeper, something no one had shown me before. In her eyes, Christine, in her eyes there was compassion. It made me so…so _ashamed!_"

He shifted his weight to lean in towards her as his voice lowered. His body was inexplicably drawn to the heat of her own as he spoke. He wanted no more then to lay his head in her lap as though he were but a child again, a child who was worried and scared. A child who was left alone in the dark each and every night, never to feel the comfort of another's warm body.

"It hurt. It always hurt. The faces, the laughter, the beatings. Never before had I hurt so much. I had thought I was dead, but when I saw her looking at me, silently begging me to take back the life that I had let drain away, I was so overcome with _anger."_

"If you asked why I did it, I could never tell you. It is not a secret that I keep, or a shameful memory that I hide. When I think of it, I feel nothing."

"Erik…" All she had done that night was whisper his name softly, urging him to speak or quieting the raging blood in his fiery veins.

"I strangled Javert. I put the noose around his neck and I tore the life from his body! He sputtered, he choked, he struggled; but I was stronger than he. I was free the moment his body dropped into the hay. It was so musty in that cage; the air was rancid, swimming with filth. Almost immediately after he fell into the hay as lifeless as a rag doll, the cage began to reek of death."

His words were strong once more, angry and bitter. So many voices, so many feelings.

"She pulled me along with her to opera house. The crowds, the mobs, they were coming for me. No doubt they would have celebrated my hanging. Who wants to see someone ugly parading down the streets of Bourgeois France? Who wants to be faced with God's errors when they are out for their morning stroll about the town? When you look out the window of a taxi, you want to see cobblestone streets lined with perfect people, not someone who looks like me. Not someone from who you must glance away immediately, not someone from which you must hide your children. _You do not want to see me…"_

She began to hush him silently as his voice broke; the tears sprang to his eyes, begging to be released in a torrent of pain. His very soul leaked acid, she could feel his entire body burning with indignation so great that it hurt her to see it bared before her.

"Oh…_oh Erik…"_

There were no words now, just touches. Gone were the rules that governed their actions. Gone were her demands that existed to salvage her propriety. Gone was the indifferent, friendly ear that she wanted to give him before he regaled his tale of broken hearts and shattered dreams to her.

What came was the touch of her warm, tiny body as she knelt before him and wrapped her arms around his tense shoulders. What came were her lips, leaving soft, gentle kisses upon his bare cheek. What came were the soft shushing noises as his back began to shake with silent sobs.

Once he was a master of his subterranean domain. Those who had never seen him feared him, he could taste their submission, and he craved it. He was not the same man who seduced her with daring songs and possessive hands. That strong, mighty ruler was now as vulnerable as a little boy.

_"Christine…"_

His hands crept into her soft brown tresses as her full lips wandered to his lips, kissing him softly before descending down the smooth, hard column of his throat.

She inhaled his spicy scent; he inhaled the lavender of her hair. The arms that hung stiffly at his sides rose to gently knead the tender skin of her back as her hands wandered over his own. She rubbed the skin beneath his shirtsleeves soothingly, urging the steel muscles to loosen and relax.

There were no thoughts of what was right or what was proper. The only thoughts were those of taking all those years of pain and erasing them from his mind. Tonight she wanted to touch every part of him, to replace those brutal blows with gentleness.

So much pain coursed through his veins, so much hate. So much anguish. He held onto her, his hands traveling to grasp her hips firmly, holding her to his body as the tears fell freely, soaking through her clothing and flowing down her skin in tiny rivulets.

_"Oh angel, please don't cry…"_ She gently began to pry the cool white porcelain from his face, the tears coursing down her cheeks as his sobs racked his body. His face was buried in her neck, the heated feel of his breath ticking her soft skin.

He made no move to stop her as she lowered the mask, his most hated defense, to the ground.

She was fearful of his reaction; he was naked with his face exposed. Yet, the nakedness he feared was most beautiful when the one who saw it accepted it. Cherished it.

Her heart beat frantically. She expected his cold, expressionless visage to appear at any moment and lash out at her for baring him so cruelly. That coldness never came. Encouraged, she gingerly lifted the jet-black wig, bringing it slowly to the ground to rest beside the mask.

Now all he was was Erik. The soft ash-brown hair blew lightly in the breeze, small tendrils clinging to his tear soaked face as he lifted it to look at her. His lips were parted in shock, not fear or shame.

His breaths were labored as he struggled to draw air into his lungs. He wanted to be strong; he wanted to be that forbidding, seductive warrior. The one who swept her off of her feet with virile confidence. He did not want to be this broken child, weeping for himself, weeping for the tragic memories that turned him into a monster.

If for but a moment, he could be that man to her, he would sleep soundly. She would be there beside him, her naked body warming the sheets as her breath tickled his nude chest.

Her fingers lifted to gently wipe away the tears that stained his cheeks. She let her hand linger over the angry red of the right side of his face. Lovingly stroking the ridged cheek and mottled flesh, she caught a salty tear on her finger, touching his dark lashes lightly as she did so. They left shadows on the gold and red of his skin, shadows that she traced reverently with the pad of her thumb.

He wiped the tears from her eyes, his skin rough and hardened by years of releasing his grief into his music. Music never judged, or laughed, or mocked. It only played, playing no matter whose ears were there to receive it.

He looked at her, her brown eyes shone with acceptance as her hand rested against his malformed features, holding it as though it were a precious stone.

He frantically pressed his lips to her own, parting her mouth his tongue and diving deep into the depths of her mouth as she moaned into his.

**A/N: Ooh, I'm mean! Don't worry; I will not leave you fine people unsatisfied for long!**


	18. Of Sin and Sinners

**Chapter 18: Of Sin and Sinners**

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews, I appreciate them so much. I apologize for being a horribly mean authoress; there is no excuse for my deplorable behavior, leaving you hanging with the promise of hot lovin' in the balance! I will now pick up where we last left off. Enjoy ladies and gents; I think you'll be happier than pigs in poop (although the climax is not yet here, nope, nope, nope hehe), after this chapter.**

**There is some sexuality in this chapter that is rather descriptive. If this offends you (which I'm nearly 100 sure it will not, since you all would not be here if it did), skip over it and await the next installment. **

**R N'R, if you please. :)**

The hot surging of dancing tongues robbed Christine of breath as her fingers tangled into the soft brown hair of her fallen angel. A humbled angel he was, diving into her mouth with sensual abandon as he tried to lose himself in the depths of her body.

His groans were tortured and deep, like the cries of a wolf as it finally relieves itself of violent, painful hunger. A past filled with sadness and hate was exorcised with the simple joining of two mouths. An innocent touch of hands began the steady climb of passionate longing. Passionate need.

If he could not have her he would surely die, the need to be above her, to cover her, and to bury himself within her was stronger than any driving impulse that plagued his mind and body.

Grasping her hips tightly, he pulled her into his lap, swiftly wrapping her parted legs about his waist as his lustful assault on her mouth intensified. Nothing could be heard but the wet, sensuous sounds of their lips and tongues colliding, joining and parting as their skin heated and their hearts beat in frantic harmony.

Christine caressed his velvety tongue with her own, marveling at the strength and texture as it expertly invaded her mouth over and over in a suggestive, erotic rhythm. It was more than just a kiss. A kiss was so…common. A kiss signified a parting, a greeting, usually an attachment of a romantic nature. This, this was not a kiss. This was an invasion of both mind and body, a slow, tantalizing rape of the senses as they lost touch with the world around them.

All that existed was this heat, this fire building within her stomach as the soul of the broken man forced its way inside of her warm, welcoming body. She pleaded, begged for him to seek solace in her flesh, to forget for but a moment the pain of years past and find joy in the selfless love of another. How she wanted him to seek comfort long denied him in her parted lips, as though the mere touch her lips could erase years of madness and hate. She had the power to save his soul once; surely her sorcery was not yet depleted.

Letting out a low groan of need, Erik let his lips wander down her neck, she tasted and smelt so beautiful, so delicate. Like a blooming rosebud needing the right touch and care to blossom into a breath-taking flower, her body trembled and warmed as he worshipped it with his lips. She was his angel, his savior, and the one woman on earth who yearned to hear his tale and looked upon his face without fear.

The breeze lifted her heavy chestnut curls as her head dipped backwards to expose the smooth, pale flesh of her neck to his ravenous mouth. A slight moan escaped her lips as her lids drifted shut, savoring the sensation of his hot mouth frantically suckling her skin.

The blasphemous thought of heaven on earth began to play in her mind, surely there was no sensation more beautiful than that of being loved with such passion and longing. He had loved her as a child, he had loved her a confused, naïve girl. He had loved her when she left him to start life anew; he loved her when she came back to him a colder, more decisive woman. So many times she longed to hate him for the man he was, but her heart could never stop loving the man that he could be; the passionate, intensely erotic man he was being right now.

His lips closed on her neck, drawing the life from her veins as he laved at the tender, reddening skin. With each gentle nibble and sucking sensation a fire burned at her core, obliterating all reason and thoughts that took her mind away from the man beneath her. The man who was loving her body with all of the strength and desire in his soul.

The gentle lapping of the river against the bank became silent as she wrapped her legs tightly around his waist, pushing herself into him, grinding against him savagely. Nothing so wrong should feel so delightful, so gloriously freeing and exciting.

This was wrong, so very, very wrong. She had fallen. A married woman, a married _Christian_ woman, was she. A woman with a man who loved her traveling abroad to make sure she and he remained comfortable. Even as her far-away husband toiled away, she spread her legs like a wanton whore and pushed her throbbing sex into another man, swooning as white-hot blood pulsed in her fiery veins.

"Do you want me to touch you, Christine?" The harsh growl emanating from the beast beneath her did not come from a child-like man longing for the love of his mother; it came from a man on the verge of exploding with want. He let his lips drift from her neck so that he may meet her heavy-lidded eyes. She did not answer, but pressed into him harshly, her need apparent.

"Ask me to touch you." His lips fastened on her collarbone, suckling furiously as her moans became ragged and intense.

"Erik…" _Yes, touch me. I beg of you, please touch me…_

"Ask me, Christine." His ragged command was muffled as he began to suck harshly on the flesh at the base of her throat, his senses on fire with her taste.

"I…I can't." Her sobbing breaths intensified as her hands fisted into his shirtsleeves, nearly tearing the thin material to shreds.

"Yes you can, yes you can love." His kisses became more passionate as his fingers burned to tear her bodice in half, exposing her flushed skin to his hungry gaze. How long had he dreamed of his moment? The moment where she would be submitting to him willingly. Begging, pleading for his touch, his kiss, his body. It all felt so surreal, as though a cruel dream was replacing his wicked ones, taunting him with the images of his angel taking pleasure in his touch.

"No, Erik." _Please, Erik…_

"Tell me that you want me." He could feel her heartbeat against his chest as her breasts pressed against him, the softness a stark contrast to his hard and solid body. Oh, how she burned…

"Please…" Her head fell forwards, her chin resting against his hair as his lips descended lower, suckling gently on the tops of her breasts.

"Say it, Christine…"

"Erik…"

"Say it!" His teeth grazed sharply across her skin, the pink marks branding her as his hands grasped her hips tightly enough to leave bruises.

"Touch me…Oh god, Erik, touch me…" The words did not feel as though they belonged to her as they escaped into the night air, eliciting a sharp groan of triumphant ecstasy from the dark man who held her on the precipice of soul-searing pleasure.

"You wish to give your body to me, Christine?" Erik stilled the back and forth grind of her hips against his near-painful arousal and looked into the dark depths of her eyes, searching for evidence of her complete and utter willful submission to his body.

"What will you do with it?" Her voice was light, teasing almost.

"Anything you want me to, anything I dare." With one swift movement he had her pinned beneath him, her back burrowing into the soft grass beneath her, the green blades pressing into her hair and tickling her face. If she did not feel such a surge of lust at his harshness in overtaking her she would have been most frightened.

Within seconds their lips began to dance once more to the tune of a gentler, softer melody. Without thrusting their tongues against one another, they let their lips glide together, him softly pressing her full bottom lip between his own. He gently nipped at her, soothing the sting with his tongue before capturing her top lip and massaging it. Her skin nearly exploded as his rough skin came to brush against her cheek and neck as his head lowered to her chest.

With one frantic movement, he tore her bodice in two; the buttons flew each and every way. Several plopping sounds were heard as the tiny plastic objects fell into the river, languorously floating about on the top of the silver-tinted waters.

Her legs encircled his body, pulling him into her as her hips began to thrust downwards, longing for the delightful pressure that she felt before when she grinded into his pelvis. She pulled at the half of the shirt still tucked in to his trousers and spread the material wide, admiring the hard expanse of golden chest sprinkled with coarse, brown hair. No body was more beautiful than his. He was so strong beneath her wandering fingers. She wanted to see and touch every part of him, to press her lips to the scars that reminded him of unspeakable cruelty and hardship. She longed to love the body so long neglected, untouched by anything but violent and punitive blows.

Their mouths found each other's once more as she gently pulled the fabric down his arms, exposing his strong shoulders and neck. The moonlight played on his skin, shielding him with shadows and white glares, emphasizing the taut muscles. He was so well sculpted, like a deliciously carved statue made in the image of a great Greek god. So firm and hard, so exquisitely beautiful.

He shrugged the shirt off of his arms and threw it open the dewy grass, his skin relieved by the cool air that dried the rapidly forming perspiration that coated his back and chest.

Christine let her fingers drift from his lower back to his shoulder blades. It was naught but a curious exploration of a man's body, she had never taken the time to touch and tease Raoul this way. She did not feel the same insatiable need to learn, feel, and touch each and every part of his body. His muscles flexed involuntarily as her hands trailed over the taut skin, softly caressing the raised lines of flesh adorning his back.

Her hands lingered on his waistband before coming to rest against the heaving weight of his belly. Her fingers tangled in the soft, curly hair that trailed from his naval and dipped into his trousers. A fierce longing to press her lips to the firm flesh overwhelmed her, but a part of her hesitated, fearful that he would be disgusted by her boldness. Or lewdness.

A harsh growl of satisfaction emerged from his lips as her hands brushed upwards, moving over his chest before resting on his shoulders.

"You're beautiful, Erik." Her voice was nearly a sob as she gently kissed the indentation at the base of his throat, the deep crevice pulsating and burning beneath her lips.

The beauty of the act occurring between them was awe-inspiring. Their touches were not rushed or frantic, indeed, they were of a most reverential nature. Learning how to explore and tease one another's bodies was like taking a maiden voyage to lands unknown. There were dangers, there was beauty, and there were memories to made and cherished forever. Lust was not something of sin or of shame, in fact, it was breath taking.

The desire to love and nurture the sensuality in another seemed so very selfless and right, as if nothing in the world could ever feel more perfect than the touch of a lover's bare skin upon your own.

Defenseless but trusting, a statement seemingly oxymoronic in nature, but brimming with a truth so indisputable that none would dare challenge it when faced with the brilliant sensation of being made love to without joining their body with someone else's intimately.

Erik gently lifted Christine from the ground and slid the dress off of her arms, the sleeves falling away effortlessly as she gracefully freed herself from the confining fabric. No corset caged her body; her skin was only shielded by a thin silk shift that had grown damp with her sweat. It clung seductively to her breasts and stomach, the white material nearly transparent as the silver glow of the moon illuminated her body.

"You have more of these undergarments, I trust?" His harsh tone bordered on dangerous, the lust undisguised.

"Yes…" With a slight shriek of surprise, she felt his hands fist into the material and rip it cleanly in half as he had done to the bodice of her dress. The tiny silk threads broke apart with ease as he continued to rip the fragile fabric from her breasts to her stomach before spreading it wide, leaving her completely exposed to his gaze.

For a moment she was ashamed, he was so rough! His eyes were so hungry as they drank in the sight of her nakedness; he studied her like would a rare bird before it flies off into the distance, never to be seen again. Did she look like a harlot, lying beneath him with her naked breasts hardening in the cool night air?

"You're so perfect, so perfect…" Firmly grasping her wrists as they moved towards her exposed body in an attempt to preserve some semblance of modesty, he held them to her sides, pressing them into the soft grass as his lips pressed to the skin in between her breasts.

Her small pink nipples became firm as his lips drifted closer to one achingly sensitive breast. His breathing was harsh as he pressed soft kisses to the tender, pale skin.

Her breasts were small but firm, and astoundingly gorgeous. Whether or not he was blinded by love or by arousal he could never know, but even after having had a woman's breasts in his hands and mouth before, he felt as though he was looking upon God's greatest creation for the first time.

Her body trembled with longing, her chest rising and falling rapidly as his lips and tongue neared one painfully erect nipple.

"Touch me, Erik…" Her pleas came of their own volition.

Releasing one tiny wrist, he gently cupped one breast, marveling at the softness of it in his hand. His palm entirely covered the tender curve, emphasizing its delicacy and fragility. He squeezed it, lightly and hesitantly. A low moan ripped free from her body as her back arched, pressing herself deeper into his hand.

Her fingers gently stroked his marred right cheek, lingering over the harsh ridge of bone that gave his face an alarming look of asymmetry. She stroked the thin skin covering his scalp that was mostly devoid of the thick brown hair that fell to his neck. The impulse to weep as her hands traced his hideous features nearly overwhelmed him. How could one find beauty in something so grotesque? It was so shockingly wrong to look as he did, no one possessed two faces, no one should have had to, but he did. He bore a burden that no human should bear, and it was displayed across his most visible feature.

Tonight, tonight she would feel the pleasure that she gave to him with her passionate kisses and loving touches. Whenever he fell, she was there. She destroyed him, but oh, how she saved him as well. A bittersweet paradox it was, and one he would not sacrifice for the world.

His lips teased her nipples once more, drawing the hardened buds into his mouth and gently kneading the tender flesh as her moans escalated to near screams of ecstasy. If someone were to come upon them as they lay and hear her cries, they would certainly think he was ravishing her mercilessly. Her cries nearly bordered on pain with how wrought they were with desperate longing and unfulfilled need.

His lips drifted downwards, the moisture from his mouth glistening on her skin as he descended lower and lower. Pressing a soft, wet kiss to her belly, he began to tear at the material of her skirts, ripping her petticoats at the same time.

"I shall buy you a new dress." He murmured breathlessly before finally parting the tattered material. The ripping sounds were fierce and violent, a strange contradiction to the feeling of complete and utter peacefulness permeating the air.

Immediately Christine felt her body stiffen. Was she to take him inside of her body? She wanted to. She wanted nothing more than to feel him within her body, buried as deeply as possible as they moved together as one. Yet, the final step to becoming an adulteress was a daunting one. Her thoughts alone had doomed her to an eternity in hell she thought, but to take part in sinful actions was a far more solid guarantee.

"Relax, my love. Relax." His voice took on a soothing, musical quality that lulled her into pleasant lethargy even as her body burned with desire and her mind screamed in protest.

Hesitantly, almost nervously, his hands began to untie the strings on her cotton drawers.

"Erik? What are you…"

"Shh, relax." He grasped her hips firmly and raised her body off of the ground before slowly pulling the cotton material down her legs and off of her body.

She began tremble violently, her shivers intoxicatingly erotic.

"Trust…" he pressed a kiss to clenched fingers, "me." Interlacing his fingers with her own, he lowered his head to her moist womanhood.

"You're so exquisite."

Christine nearly shrieked with shock when he felt his tongue begin to travel across her sex. Did men actually do this? Did they actually enjoy it? Surely the taste had to be disagreeable, none of her friends at the opera house, even the ones known for their salacious encounters, had ever spoken of such an obscene act!

Yet, for an act of an obscene nature, it was oddly…pleasant. In fact, as Erik's fingers and tongue worked to excite her in unimaginable ways, her prior reservations melted away almost instantly.

With each and every stroke of his tongue and probe of his fingers, Erik felt her shudder and moan, her musical cries glorious to hear.

"Let it come love, let it come." His gentle coaxing and incessant stroking drove her to paradise. Never before had there been such heat inside of her, the pressure was of a most intense nature.

"Don't be nervous, Angel." He linked his fingers through hers once more and felt them tighten, grasping him as though he held her very life in his hands. The gentle humming of satisfaction in his ears turned to a mighty roar as he flicked the tiny pink bud that made her nearly scream out in unrelieved frustration every time the hot, wet heat of his tongue boldly caressed her.

"Oh God! Erik…"

"Yes, yes, cry out love, cry out if you want." His ministrations continued, undaunted by her uncertainty. She had never released before it would seem, not an uncommon aspect of being a woman.

With a final scream, her body trembled violently. The most delicious contractions shook her wildly. Never could anything be so beautiful as the sensation of complete release. It was though all of her demons and darkness had been abdicated in one single, perfectly scandalous act.

"Come inside me, Erik." Her soft plea touched him, for all it was it sounded like a filthy provocation, but the soft delivery turned it into a request for bonding. Bonding that went deeper than friendship or sex. Bonding of a most soulful nature.

He could not do it. Her lust and orgasm made her weary; her thoughts were illogical, powered by her thirst to consummate what was lingering between them. In the morning, she would feel nothing but regret. She would blame herself for her wantonness; she would blame him for shamefully exploiting her body in its weakened state.

"Soon, Christine. Soon." When they would come together, she would go to him, knowing that they were about to make love. They would not fall into bed, or onto solid ground, simply because a night of heart-wrenching confessions and the glory of sexual fulfillment coloured their minds with euphoria.

She would go to him knowing that in giving him her body, she was betraying her husband and her marriage vows. She would know this without sympathy or satisfaction clouding her judgment.

"What?" Her body shot upwards as she pulled what remained of her tattered silk shift around her bare torso, color slowly seeping from her face.

"If we do this now, you shall hate me tomorrow." His pitifully straining manhood would hate him tomorrow; her wraith would make things even more unpleasant.

"Why are you saying this?" Hot tears of rage threatened to pour forth. He had seen, touched, and kissed every part of her body, but he could not bring himself to make love to her? She felt…filthy. All sexual acts were supposed to end in intercourse…were they not?

"In the morning you'll understand. Believe me, love." He pressed a kiss to her temple and smoothed her hair; it was damp from the perspiration pouring from her forehead. "No one wants to make love to you more than I."

"You must think me a whore." Her voice quieted on the last word, her head bowing to rest on her raised knees.

"No, not I. It is you who thinks you are, which is precisely why I have cut this evening short." He sounded wistful rather than angry, tired almost.

"I'm a bad person, Erik."

He stood abruptly, pulling her with him as she clutched the torn fabric to her body protectively.

"Never again will you say something like that in my presence!" The anger burning in his icy blue eyes was enough to silence her almost immediately as his hands gripped her shoulders emphatically.

"Erik…"

"Who listened to my tale tonight? Who held me, comforted me, let me cry like an infant on their shoulder? Who has come to share this house with me to save me from myself, knowing the monstrous tyrant I can become?"

Even as he clutched her shoulders she kept her hands clasped firmly over her parted clothing. There were no eyes to witness her nudity save for his, but false modesty proved a false comfort when one felt so inclined as to question their judgment and actions.

"What have we done, Erik?" Her voice was but a whisper now, a soft question carried off into the night.

"We have explored and shared our desires. There is no shame in that." He released her shoulders even as he fought the urge to pry her arms from her chest and wrench them out at her sides. He felt…insulted by her propriety. Yes, insult was the perfect word.

"I am a married woman."

"So you are." He shrugged into his discarded shirtsleeves but allowed the sides to remain open, blowing back and forth in the wind and lightly slapping against his skin.

Her harsh reminder of things unchangeable struck him like a blow to the stomach. Had he been ignorant, nay, foolish enough to believe that he could make that fop disappear by simply wishing him gone? Was he fool, nay, arrogant enough to believe his touches could dissolve a marriage and the love within it?

"But I desire you, Erik. You have touched me in more ways than you can ever imagine. In more way that even I care to imagine."

"Do you still believe that we are living in sin then?"

"Yes." A discomforting silence descended.

"Indeed!" He turned to retreat when her hand fell lightly upon his arm.

"You did not let me finish."

"Please, continue." He spoke through clenched teeth, his eyes upon the ebony sky, begging the fading stars for strength.

"Sin is sin, I am not the one who defines it. What bothers me most is that although many would say that happened tonight, indeed, what as happened all week, is a deep, unforgivable, mortal sin, I am not ashamed. I should be, but I am not."

"The thoughts of others should never, ever be held in any importance." His somber tone was serious.

"I wish I had your carelessness. Well, not all of your carelessness." She placed her hand in his and smiled, making sure one hand was still clutching the tattered shift, more so from the cold than from embarrassment. The night had cooled in both temperature and intensity, the heat of moments earlier fading away.

"Let's go to bed." He interlaced his fingers through hers once more. He felt like a child, giddy with the joy of having a pretty girl hold his hand. How had he become reduced to this? When she gifted him with a laugh or a smile he was overjoyed, disbelieving that a creature of such sublime beauty and talent could ever touch him with warmth and acceptance. All good fortune was but a dream to him so many years ago, how was it that only now did he feel contentment? Only now, after he lost everything…

"Bed?" She raised one finely shaped brow at his double entendre.

"I want to sleep with you by my side. You seem to chase away the nightmares."


	19. Hardship on the Road Ahead

**Chapter 19: **

**A/N: Thank you all so much for the reviews, they are wonderful, encouraging, and fabulous in every way imaginable! Now, this chapter is a little more violent in parts, as I am now starting to the take the story in the direction that I had originally planned it to go. This is mainly a relationship-centered piece, but there must be some twists and turns along the way to make things difficult for our favourite star-crossed lovers.**

**Terpsichore314: Thanks for the tip about the plastic buttons. I'll remember that for future reference, as more buttons shall be popping as the story continues lol. **

**Oh, and I must confess that I am indeed working on another story right now. However, I will never, ever neglect this one, so worry not, dear readers! In case any of you might want to read my other WIP, you can find it on adultfan. and aria. It's a naughty, sexy story, but still classy (IMO). Sorry for the shameless self-promotion...**

**On to the story we go! **

The dark London night was alive with masculine shouts of victory and defeat as thick white cigar smoke drifted around the room. A lot of well-dressed, well-to-do gentlemen wafted through the thick haze of foggy air to watch their friends and foes suffer and cheer as fortunes were lost or gained with the unveiling of the cards.

A male right of passage was the game hall. A place where men could be men, free from the confines of polite society and their flitting, fawning wives and lovers. A place to loosen one's cravat and inhale blue-tinged smoke with undisguised glee.

Glasses clinked, liquid was poured, fists hit tables, and guffaws emanated from a menagerie of red-faced aristocrats, all of whom sought to embellish upon their already substantial incomes by coyly and expertly wrangling money from their fellow gamblers.

Raoul had only partaken in gambling once before, when he was briefly a member of the French navy. He was not very good at it, but skill aside, had no real passion for cards. He grew bored rather quickly, always feeling impatient as the minutes turned to hours as the somber faces of his shipmates turned serious with worry. There was no greater time of overwhelming masculine presence then there was in the navy, but the refreshing, carefree nature of young and rambunctious Frenchman soon became too commonplace and painfully monotonous.

Besides, he would never have entered the navy to begin with had Philippe not forced it upon him in a futile attempt to harden him after years of living with his aunts. He claimed that a feminine upbringing made for an effeminate gentleman.

Raoul did not fear for his life upon boarding that large white vessel, but rather for the changes that would come to pass. Would he be able to prove to his brother that he could be a man? A strong, powerful presence taking the world by storm with a fist of steel and a will of the gods?

No, his experience did not lead to anything as dramatic as all that, but he found he did well for himself. A valiant knight or crusader he was not, but a man of moral integrity he was. Not that hellfire and brimstone kind of integrity though, he always found those types to be insufferable prigs.

His brother was prig, but not so insufferable.

"Enjoying yourself, boy?" Uncle Jean's voice was a roar of drunken elation, his eyes brimming with smug satisfaction over the night's shady victories.

"Yes. It's wonderful here." He hoped that he did not sound as sarcastic as he felt.

"All men learn to love the game rooms! They really are a home away from home!" His uncle threw one thick, hairy arm around his shoulders, nearly causing him to tumble to his knees with the unexpected weightiness.

"What would be your pleasure tonight?" Jean pressed his face close Raoul's ear, his brandy-laced breath hot and vile.

"Pleasure?"

"Yes, our new Patron needs a little something to ease the pressure, does he not?" Raoul nearly winced at hearing the dreaded title proclaimed. He had stood within that opulent London opera house with his heart lurching in his chest as dark memories assaulted him mercilessly. He had claimed that never again would the dramatic splendor of the theatre make itself a nuisance in his quiet life. He had promised himself and Christine that his visit would be brief, now he knew that it would last a lifetime.

"I'm content, thank you." Still that mammoth arm remained on his shoulders, he felt a horrid need to frantically wipe away the essence of the filthy lout off of his jacket.

"Raoul, you will exhaust yourself into an early grave!" Jean clipped him on the back before throwing open his arms in amused delight at the arrival of yet another mercenary aristocrat would had seen one too many winters with a brandy glass lodged in his fist.

Philippe stood against a far wall with crystal glass filled with scotch, his eyes dull and brows knitted together in a frown. An attractive young redhead with curly hair was chattering away at him rapidly, her thick black lashes batting together expertly. A cute display, but not an intriguing one.

"How long must we stay here?" Ignoring the young woman at his brother's side Raoul stepped towards Philippe, his voice tired and toneless.

"However long it takes before Jean exhausts himself or goes bankrupt."

"I see." Well, for once he and his brother shared common feelings. It would seem that under such duress as they were, it was difficult to attain the energy necessary to disagree with one's only ally in a battlefield of alcohol-induced marches towards prosperity. Or pride.

"Look to that table," Philippe nodded his head in the direction of a large, rectangular table that was surrounded by over a dozen men and ladies of questionable repute. The men sitting down were flanked by various onlookers and concerned peers, many of whom were bent over the unfolding activity with apprehensive looks screwed on their faces. Some were quiet, others rather loud. The flurry of black and brown suit jackets and satin dresses obscured the faces of the men sitting opposite Raoul.

"Yes?" There was nothing occurring of consequence.

"Do you see that strange man next to Jean? He has been staring at me for the past half-hour." Philippe's voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes narrowing with undisguised discomfort.

"So move and he won't be able to look at you." Raoul couldn't actually see any strange man with prying eyes; there was far too much smoke and movement.

Philippe looked at Raoul blankly, annoyance creeping into his countenance.

"Something about him is bothersome, animal-like, don't you see it?"

"I must confess to not knowing who you are speaking of, I see a lot of people with strange, animal-like eyes."

"That one right there, you imbecile!" Philippe pointed towards a dark-haired man with an unusually large chin and a rather angular face.

"Oh." His eyes were a little beady, similar to the tiny black eyes of a fish.

"He has not taken his eyes off of me once this evening."

"How strange, perhaps you are just being paranoid."

"I am not. Look for yourself, he's staring right now." Raoul met the eyes of the fish-like character for but a moment before the black eyes lowered and turned their gaze to the table.

Jean stood and began fumbling towards them, his brandy glass newly topped.

"Come into the other room, young gentleman, we have much to discuss!" He was hobbling now, his body shifting from side to side as he made his way towards the French doors that stood ajar at the far end of the smoky chamber.

The giggling redhead took one of Jean's extended arms and the strange man with the fish-like eyes walked silently behind Raoul and Philippe as they shuffled through the crowd.

A hundred 'pardon me,' and 'excuse me's' and gentle pushes against the shoulders of gregarious gentlemen hollering about wildly later, the four people stood inside a rather quiet sitting room. The walls were a cream colour and the white sofas were no-descript. A silent, calm room it was. A peaceful, clean space that one would go to for quiet conversation or frantic negotiation after a hard night with the cards.

No doubt this room had seen sorrow, rage, blood, sweat, and tears. It had seen loss, gain, and the darker side of man that emerges only when one's fortune or reputation is threatened.

The cream walls had seen fear and pain. They had seen victory and defeat, hope and despair. Violence and threats.

"Gentleman," Jean cleared his throat loudly, the mucousy sound nearly inducing sickness in all who heard, "I would like to introduce you to Gaston Duville and Claudette Cassell. Monsieur Duville shall be my personal accountant, and Claudette our featured diva."

Such a revelation did not affect Raoul. All opera houses needed both accountants and divas. What bothered him most was the smug grin on Jean's face.

He and Philippe nodded politely, shaking hands and kissing the gloved fist of the green-eyed soprano. Well, at least he had to assume that she was a soprano.

"Gaston shall keep the finances in order, Claudette will sing. Both will make me a rich man." He drank to himself, his toast obnoxious and belligerent.

"Have no money of your own, Uncle Jean?" Philippe set down his scotch and folded his hands in his lap.

"Plenty, but I lost most of it in France back in 1850." Uproarious laughter escaped his wide-set mouth. It was followed by a lilting, albeit forced giggle from Claudette.

"Such a humorous thing it is, bankruptcy." Raoul's sarcastic retort caused silence to briefly settle over the room.

"Boy, do not forget that you are not in a position to criticize. You hang on to your prosperity by a very thin thread, one that I could easily cut and have considered doing every time I look at your bitter, scowling little face." Jean shook one thick, sausage finger in the air, his eyes wide with warning. It was a terribly annoying look, one that nearly compelled Raoul to wipe it off with a firm blow.

Philippe remained silent, his face in his hands as he let out a harsh sigh of frustration.

"At least if I were to lose my fortune it would not be out of carelessness."

"A man like you should not speak of carelessness, your precarious position is a result of carelessness."

"I don't follow you…" Raoul's brows knitted together in confusion.

"All of your decisions have been careless, boy, that is why you are here with me right now, helping me earn back what I've lost over the years."

Raoul knew he was a pawn, he had nearly come to accept it after he and Jean's first meeting, but he hated to be reminded by the very man who enslaved him so methodically.

"Well, why not entrap the men whom you lost your fortune to?" Raoul hated to sound petulant, but selfishness overwhelmed nobility.

"Most of them are dead."

A roaring silence descended over the room.

"Is that a threat?" Philippe rose to his feet then, his glass hitting the wooden table with a deafening thud. A challenge to a duel of wits, words, and wills.

"No, just the truth. The one chap who won most of it just happens to be dead. No, I did not kill him." Jean mumbled under his breath before opening his large, cavernous mouth and swallowing the rest of the brandy. Several amber drops clung to his beard, but he did not seem to notice.

"Did you hire someone else to do the deed for you?" Raoul asked, his tone sharp and rough.

"Age and illness are not servants of my own heart, I'm afraid." Raoul saw truth in the man's eyes, he was not ordering out assassinations. He seemed content enough to extort finances through blackmail.

"Now, gentlemen, the true purpose for this little clandestine meeting is one neither of you shall like." Jean cleared his throat once more.

"I will need you to each pay me 20 of your monthly salaries in order to keep this new opera house endeavor successful."

Raoul felt himself gasp before words came to his lips.

"You do not need us to each give you 20, that is most ridiculous!" He knew one blow would level the old, fat drunk, but a deep trepidation warned him to keep his hands at his sides.

"My boy! I have debts to pay, games to play, and fine ladies of the night to screw, and you have not a pot to piss in should you defy me!"

Without warning a shot of black dress clothes fled across the room and landed a blurred, pale fist right across the fat man's ruddy cheek. Raoul looked around him in stunned disbelief, his heart thundering in his chest as Philippe threw the drunkard to the ground, cursing in a voice filled with such potent rage that it nearly froze his blood.

All that could be heard was the sound of blows, muffled grunts, and meek protestations at the flurry of blows being rained mercilessly and wildly on the screaming, defenseless man. Jean curled himself into a fat ball of flesh and eveningwear as his exposed chin and chest were pummeled.

Philippe stood proudly with the fallen man cowering between his widespread thighs as he held Jean's shirtsleeves in his fist and pushed his feebly flailing hands aside to tear into him like an uncaged tiger.

Other shrieks and protests were heard as Claudette released meek and terrified squeals at the untamed violence occurring but ten feet away from her silk-clad slippers. Shoes pounded the floor; bodies moved about, glasses rattled on trembling tables. Philippe was normally such a calm man, a brute in principle, but a gentleman in poise. He restrained his indignation expertly, his fiery and icy looks of contempt never turning into shouts or enraged punches. Until now.

Then glittering silver emerged from the shadows, the glare sharp and unmistakable. The cold, hard silver was gently, almost reverently placed against Philippe's neck as surprising strong, vein-ridden, tanned hands pulled his head upwards by the hair.

"I recommend you cease your actions, good Monsieur." Gaston spoke in hushed, dangerous tones as Philippe went stiff beneath his 10-inch blade.

Raoul lurched forward then, stopping just sort of his wildly supplicated brother whose harsh breaths were coming out in tortured gasps as he tried to pull away from the iron grip on his hair.

Jean remained on the floor, his beastly grunts becoming more deafening as he struggled to heave his fat body upwards, and failed. Blood poured from his nose and lip, and already his left eye was turning a horrid purple colour and rapidly swelling.

The room saw more violence tonight, but it was probably still rather mild compared to confrontations of past years.

"Are you ready to behave?" Gaston let his lips nearly caress Philippe's ear as he finally pulled him to his feet, the blade never leaving its target should the restrained victim fail to cooperate.

Philippe did not answer, Raoul remained rooted to the spot. He looked around frantically for a weapon of sorts. A sword, a knife, a pistol, a fire poker, a ceramic statue of a naked Greek god. Anything would have done, but only crystal glasses and pristine white sofa cushions were available.

He thought of assaulting his brother's captor with a glass, he was rather quick when involved in a battle, but a glass was small and would do little injury, and would guarantee Philippe's swift slaughter. If a Champaign bottle were in the vicinity, he would not have hesitated to attack almost immediately. As it stood, the situation was far too precarious to use his fists.

"Monsieur?" Gaston tightened his grip and dug the blade in further, causing tiny rivulets of blood to escape the broken skin and coat the glistening silver with bright-red liquid. "Are you ready to behave yourself? It is rude not to answer when spoken to!"

"Yes…" Philippe struggled to draw breath into his lungs. Nothing was so shameful than being put into a place of submission by another man. Nothing.

"All right then." Gaston released Philippe before rapidly spinning him around and leaving a bruising blow on his jaw line.

Raoul surged forward and was caught on the chin by an expert hit, one that left him in earth-shattering, eye-watering agony. Both men clutched at their throbbing faces, staring with wide-eyed horror at the silent, deadly, knife-wielding, fish-eyed warrior before them.

"Now boys," Gaston took out a silky blue handkerchief and wiped the blood from the blade. "We shall never have to play rough again if you cooperate. And cooperate you will."

"I…" Raoul was silenced with one glare.

"Now, you shall do as you're told. If you do not, you will lose far more than your pocketbooks. In fact, at any time I could accost your young wife…" Gaston looked pointedly at Raoul whose eyes widened in shocked disbelief and unconcealed horror.

"Or your prima ballerina princess…" It was Philippe's turn to stare in shock.

"Your business interests will be eradicated and your personal lives ruined should you refuse to accept calmly and without reservation. Gentlemen, I assure you that in time this little incident will be long forgotten and you will be quite content with the results of your involvement, but that is only if you act accordingly. A small thing to ask of you both, is it not?"

Both de Chagny's conceded silently. A new business venture was upon them whether they liked it or not. Their acceptance of their fate was wise, as they did not meet with Gaston's blade or fists again.

* * *

Christine sat in Madame Giry's tiny kitchen in tense silence. She had not wanted to make the visit; in fact, she had been quite content lying in bed with Erik.

They had not made love; they had not even touched, kissed, or caressed one another intimately. They laid together in comfortable serenity, listening intently to the wind hitting the window in a calm, musical rhythm. The night enveloped them in its peacefulness as their hearts slowed and their blood cooled.

Christine had watched the rise and fall of Erik's chest as sleep began to take them both, calling them into a world of unconscious splendor.

She remembered placing one hand on his heart, marveling at the soft, warm skin pulsating beneath her palm. The fine hairs of his chest tickled her fingers as he ran his own through her heavy chestnut locks.

They could have laid like that forever, the world silent but for the calming sounds of night outside their window. In a world of their own, no one existed but them. There was no haunting past or far away husband. There were no lies or dark secrets. The only thing that existed was the beating of their hearts and their quiet, even breathing as they touched one another softly, as though one would fall away forever.

Now she sat in the kitchen and sipped a cup of tea, smiling as the steam rose and moistened her nose and cheeks.

Meg looked strange. She looked older, her eyes full of consternation and her lips pursed together tightly. In fact, she looked a lot like her mother, stoic and unyielding. Tired from years of making and receiving demands.

"My dear, why are you smiling so?" Antoinette sat down across from Christine and caught the young girls chocolate-brown eyes with her own. There was a lightness in her gaze, something calm. It was a remarkable difference from their last confrontation. The stormy depths that marred her countenance before were replaced by tranquility.

"Oh, I did not realize that I was smiling." Christine stirred her tea mindlessly, her smile never dissipating. Her mood could not even be blackened by Meg's stern silence.

"I am going to mail some letters, I will be back in a little while." Antoinette rose from her seat and walked to the door. It was a lovely day; she would not need her cloak.

The prospect of walk in the hot sun and fresh air was most pleasing to her. Beautiful days left time for reflection, and she had much to reflect upon. Her mind was filled with questions and a menagerie of various feelings. Relief and fear chiefly. Christine seemed unharmed and rather content, but her contentment was cause for concern. She looked like a woman pleased. A woman whose mind was drifting carelessly in a sea of pleasant memories and physical delight. A worrisome prospect indeed.

Meg looked at her smiling friend with annoyance.

"You're with him, aren't you?" The question was clipped and harsh. Christine looked up suddenly, her spoon clinking against the ceramic cup as she lowered it to its saucer.

"Who?"

"Him."

"Who is 'him'?"  
"I don't believe he has a name."

"Meg…" Christine's heart began beating wildly in her chest as she felt a shameful rush of heat under her skin. Did Madame Giry tell her? Perhaps she did. Christine did not know if that enraged or relieved her.

"Christine…do you remember Francine?"

Christine was mildly taken aback; it seemed an odd query at such a time.

"The dancer? Yes, how could I forget?" It was a story not easily forgotten. Most stories that ended in tragedy remained at the forefront of the cynical and fearful human mind.

"Do you remember how badly she wanted to marry that Duke? God, what was his name…"

"Nicholas Stone." An unforgettable ass in the unforgettable tale of tragedy. Francine was a beautiful young ballet rat who managed to fall under the seductive spell of a handsome English Duke.

He sought her out after a performance of Faust and swept her off of her tiny little ballerina feet with roses, jewelry, Champaign, gowns, and petal-covered silk bed sheets. He attended every performance and brought her to every ball in France, making her look like royalty as she walked with her arm in his.

She had expected him to propose at any moment, as she said their love grew more and more with each sunrise, and even the most cynical of workers and performers began to believe in their romance. He was, after all, quite devout in his attentions.

However, one day the Duke stopped appearing and Francine spent more nights locked into her room, sobbing silently, never speaking to anyone.

A newspaper arrived one day with the Duke's handsome faced splashed across the cover, his matronly wife of a decade clinging tightly to his arm. It came as a shock to the entire opera house that Lord Stone was a married man, and it shed a powerful light on the cause of little Francine's suffering.

Had the love affair ended in a betrayal such as that, the tale would not have been nearly so tragic. The denouement came when little Jammes began screaming and crying wildly one day while tearing through the corridors like a woman possessed.

It was so difficult to understand what she was trying to say, her sobs and gasps turning her words into frantic, hysterical murmurs. The tears fiercer than ever, the traumatized child led Madame Giry to Francine's room. Her door had been unlocked, which was a rather strange occurrence, as Francine rarely emerged from the confines of her dorm and seldom allowed another soul to enter.

Madame Giry described the sight before her as horror beyond her imagination. Little Francine had been found submerged in her bathtub in a day dress that had been dyed red from her blood. In fact, the water spilling over the tub and onto the floor was the most horrid shade of crimson.

Francine had slit her pale wrists with a shard of a broken mirror. She had been with child at the time of her suicide.

It was a terrible, horrific ending for someone so young and hopeful, all residents of the opera house were shaken to the core. All girls were warned to be exceedingly weary of noble gentlemen seeking them out from then on.

"What moral are you preaching to me, Meg?"

"You were so very fortunate, Christine! Do you not see it?" Meg was nearly screaming now, her voice hoarse with emotion.

"What are you talking about?" Christine let her voice fall to a whisper as she gently fingered the ceramic cup.

"A rich nobleman came for you, did he not? A rich nobleman confessed his love for you, he rescued you from a murderer, and he married you. How dare you throw away that luck for that monster! How dare you!" Meg pushed away from the table so abruptly that her chair went crashing to the floor.

"Meg!" Christine stood up swiftly, her face burning with indignation and shame.

"Do you know how many girls would have given everything to be you? All that men wanted them for was their bodies, but you; you had a dashing young Vicomte who wanted you for your heart! He nearly died trying to save you from the man who are living happily with right now!"

"You wouldn't understand…"

"No, I don't Christine! Make me understand, please, god, I beg of you, make me understand!"

"I'm falling in love with him!" The words came as a horrid shock, an earth shattering, jarring revelation.

"You are not. You are falling madly in lust with him."

"I wish that were true, and at one point, it was, but I see in him something so beautiful that has so long been buried…"

"And what of your husband?"

Christine stopped. What of Raoul? She still loved him; he was her rock, her support, and her greatest ally in the world.

"I don't know, Meg."

"Christine. He almost died trying to protect you, and this is how you thank him? By giving yourself to his nemesis?"

"I know that it's wrong Meg. Everything that I have been feeling is so very, very wrong. But I can't stop it; I don't want to stop it. I can't think of anything but him now. Can a woman love two men so much in two very different ways?"

"Do not try and justify this sham!"

"I am not trying to justify anything. I am only trying to understand my own heart!" She hated how much her voice shook. Her entire body trembled.

"Your heart is a selfish one because you believe you are entitled to the world." Meg's eyes turned cold.

"What?" The harsh, bitter retort nearly caused tears to spring to Christine's eyes.

"You lost your father and the world coddled you. An angel taught you to sing, my mother raised you as her own, I thought you a sister, and a Vicomte made you his bride. You think all people who have happened upon tragedy are rewarded as you were?"

"Meg, my life has never been perfect..."

"No, it has not, but Christine, I lost a father as well, and no strapping young nobleman snapped me up from the clutches of a tortured genius!"

Christine had often heard that envy was a great form of flattery, but this was not envy, this was something deeper.

"I'm sorry that you and I are so different."

"I am not jealous of you, Christine. I am aghast that you would throw away such good fortune for the promise of tangling some sheets with a madman." So Meg thought her a whore.

"If that is what you think of me, we have nothing more to discuss." Christine grabbed her reticule and shoved her chair into the table harshly, nearly splintering the wood. Her body was on fire, burning with a rage and pain so astute that it was difficult to breathe.

"I saw you that night on stage. I saw how he held you, how you melted into his arms. I also saw him cut down a chandelier that injured countless people and destroyed the only home you and I ever knew!"

Flashes of that night came uninvited. There were so many screams, so many tears, so much hatred and pain.

"Men don't change, Christine. Now if you please leave I would appreciate it. I'll tell mother you had a headache." Meg's face crumbled. Her request left her hurt and vulnerable, but it hurt more to stare into the eyes of the woman across from her. The woman had become a complete stranger ever since she pried information about Christine's mysterious disappearance from her house a week ago from her mother.

Christine Daae was gone, and in her place was a selfish, naïve, inconsiderate, wanton little harlot. One with an obvious taste for the obscene who enjoyed being bedded by disfigured murderers.

"Someday Meg, someday you might understand." Christine opened the door and walked silently into the hallway, her heart heavy as she fought to control the tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks.

_

* * *

_

_"Men don't change…"_

Meg's cryptic warning followed her down the stairs and out into the bright Parisian streets.

Meg was right. Erik was a murderer. He was a liar. He was conceited, arrogant, and had no regard for anyone but himself. Yet he was passionate, tortured, and in his soul was the potential for blinding beauty. He was a beaten boy and broken man who wanted love and who loved with all of his heart.

Could a man change?

Could Erik really, truly change?

_"God, please, let this journey end in triumph…" _

She silently prayed over and over again.


	20. The Two Sides of Paradise

**Chapter 20: The Two Sides of Paradise**

**A/N: I am so sorry for the delay in updates! This is the longest I have ever gone without updating, but I had a ridiculously busy week last week. Once again, I apologize for my negligence, I am bad authoress. Anyways, I think you guys will like this one (it has a little bit of everything for everyone). Please let me know what you think, I love reading your comments. Thanks to all who have reviewed thus far, I heart you all!**

**On another note, I would like to dedicate this chapter to everyone who has lost their lives, loved ones, or feelings of safety in the London terrorist attacks today. My heart goes out to all of you.**

_Men don't change…_

Meg's ominous warning followed Christine through the crowded Parisian streets for what seemed like endless hours. Every step she made towards the tiny house she was learning to call home was strained.

It was not that she did not want to see Erik. In fact, she wanted nothing more than to look upon him sitting quietly, his face peaceful and content in the soft light of the afternoon sun. No longer would he be the omnipotent creature of darkness, a specter lurking in the shadows with malevolent intent. Now, with her friendship and affection he would be a man of great virtue.

Well, perhaps virtue was too strong a term. But at least his heart could beat with contentment knowing that she had seen each and every part of him and still let him hold her at night.

Yet her ecstatic reaction to his touch and soft caress were so ethereal and fantastical in nature that it seemed as though a mild change in the wind could tear him away from her.

The man whom she loved was also the man that she hated.

She hated the man Meg spoke of.

She loved the man that she saw buried beneath the anger and pain of years past.

_She loved him…_

Was it too naïve to accept the rush of emotions so powerful that they threatened to bring her to knees as love? It was almost too powerful to be given a name so simple, so often used in casual conversation and abused in frivolous poetry and misleading fairy tales.

Why did her heart scream love without due reprimand from her mind? She had become, through hardship and necessity, a logical and rational woman. She no longer believed in fantasy, she no longer dreamt of being swept off of her feet by a mighty and noble Prince.

The streets Paris were filled with a million faces, all of which ignored her with naught a second look. What would they think if they knew that she was the notorious diva who brought an opera house to ruin with her rejection of a legendary creature of doom?

Would their mild expressions turn to ones of pity and condemnation?

A startled holler sounded above her bowed head as a man threw his arms above his in head in indignation. A harsh snort brought her head upwards to glance into the frighteningly close face of a ruddy draft horse whose path she had crossed whilst lost in her reverie.

The large brown eyes seemed to narrow at her, leering into her traitorous and unfaithful soul.

It became clear to her that thinking too much proved a great danger to ones fragile sanity. Condemnation from a horse? She was beginning to worry herself!

Muttering an apology she stepped aside, the masculine grunts of bewilderment and irritation following her even as she walked from them as swiftly as her feet would carry her.

If the day were clear and her mind free, she surely would have shrunk away in embarrassment, mentally berating herself for her carelessness as she mumbled incoherent yet sincere apologies to the offended horseman. In the distance she could hear the slight crack of leather as he tugged the reins fiercely, urging the tired animal onwards to a destination unknown to her.

The day was warm and rather pleasant. She watched her shadow waver in front of her as she stepped forward. It was taller and skinnier than she, like a black beanpole slithering along the brown cobblestones, soundless and unobtrusive.

The bustle and excitement of a frenzied city dissipated into the distance as she walked closer and closer to the home of the infamous Phantom. No longer was he that Phantom to her. He ceased being that strange, surreal being the night he broke down in her arms and confessed to her the deeply buried secrets of his tragic past.

He had lost that stoic and stony visage that gave him the air of a forceful authority. No longer was his will the law, no longer were his words filled with threats and ominous warnings of tragedy to come.

No, the tragedies he spoke of were his own, and oh, how they had broken him! He was born brilliant, and he was also born ugly. His face obliterated all of his beauty, and he became a monster. Yet, in his weakest moments of truth, and in the calm moments of passion that followed, he was that brilliant, passionate man who stole her heart the first night he sang to her.

She should have been furious at Meg for insulting him, but she could not bring herself to fault her.

She could resent her, and she could feel her flesh burn with indignation at the implication that she was no more than a common whore. But Meg could never understand the heart-wrenching joy her soul felt when she uncovered the man who hid his heart beneath a porcelain fortress. Meg could not understand the passion.

Yet Meg had brought up Raoul.

What of Raoul?

The very thought of him caused her chest to nearly cave in on itself in agony. It was the agony of guilt. She was guilty because she loved him. She was guilty because she did not give his handsome face and good heart a second thought when Erik held her.

When Raoul and her sailed away on Erik's gondola that fateful night, she had looked back at her Angel as he wept silently with heartbreak. She sang to Raoul a promise of love and never-ending devotion, and god knew she meant every word. Yet, when she sang she looked at Erik, her eyes never leaving his reddened and swollen cheeks as he wished her farewell for all eternity.

She knew then that she would forever exist in two worlds, the world of sun and the world of shadows. She had a darkness within her own soul, but a childlike disposition in her heart. She wanted a Prince. She wanted a daring, dangerous lover. What happened when the lines of fantasy blurred?

Confrontations with life-long friends and battles against the mind happened.

* * *

When she returned to the house after a long walk of aching reflection, she was greeted with the man whom she was not in love with.

She could feel the coldness permeating through the air of the house, the chill stripping her bare and penetrating her skin. The air still bent to the will of the master, and it was in a most foul mood.

How could it be that she could feel his anger even before it came hurtling out of him with abandon? Some might call it a soulful connection of sorts, but at tense moments of horrendous suspense and ominous warning, it was a curse.

"Did you enjoy your day?" A harsh, clipped voice emanated from the library, the tone controlled yet fierce.

It was a seemingly innocent question, but a blackness seemed to colour the air as the words escaped the mahogany confines that caged his anger. Temporarily of course.

"It was fine." She would not allow his foul mood to make her tremble, not after she had forsaken her friend for his sake.

"Oh?" The sound of book cover closing signaled his imminent emergence.

This was the man whom she did not love. This was the Phantom, the malevolent, embittered Hades.

"Yes, it was a most lovely afternoon." She lied, standing her ground as emphatically as was possible.

"You were gone for much longer than you said you would be." He finally appeared, his impeccable appearance making him look oddly handsome and debonair despite the fire waiting to explode beneath his eerily calm façade.

His navy blue waistcoat hugged his body tightly, drawing attention to his taut muscles and broad chest. His fine black jacket had not a wrinkle or speck of dust. His ebony wig was perfectly placed; the glistening strands slicked back expertly, shining in the pale afternoon light.

She found she much preferred the disheveled, open-shirted, loose haired Erik. The Erik not wound as tight as coiled snake awaiting a chance to strike out at its prey.

"Where did you go?" He circled her slowly, his eyes burning into hers, searching for a truth that was not there. His voice was low and dangerous.

"You know where I went." She crossed her arms over her chest protectively and met his eyes, never allowing her gaze to falter.

"I know where you said you were going, that does not mean that I know where you went."

She felt intense relief that he not trailed her on her outing, that lack of trust in her would tear into her heart like a knife. Yet his interrogation was no better.

"I don't appreciate this." She turned and walked away, her anger beginning to cloud her resolve to stand still in the face of his sneering arrogance.

"I do not appreciate being lied to." He walked up behind her, his breath tickling the shell of her ear. The normally potent sensation made her cringe.

"I am not lying, but I will not fall to my knees and plead for your understanding." Would this be how things would forever be? The nights of passionate longing and the days of unspoken questions and doubts?

Erik looked upon her as she stood, her breathing even and her face calm despite the frantic beating of her heart. He had been a ravaged wretch since she spent the afternoon away from him.

His mind had been reeling with questions. Had she gone to the gendarmes? Was her passionate response to him simply a coy farce to render him vulnerable and defenseless? Betrayal came when one least expected it, and it sometimes came from those who one was supposed to trust the most.

Why, he had seen such things unfold before his very eyes, and surely the tales of treachery and deceit that marred literature and history could not be so wrong. Lovers betrayed lovers, family exposed family, and friends destroyed friends. The heart had its secrets, and no doubt hers was no different. His most certainly was not.

But something about her eyes disarmed him; there was an honesty in them, but also a deep coldness that worked to mask something deeper. Perhaps it was hurt. Still, he was not satisfied. He granted her freedom without dissent, and the hours that dragged on in insufferable silence took his mind careening down dark and dangerous roads. He was assaulted with doubts, he was overcome with fear.

"You will not tell me where you went?" He stepped in front of her, his eyes blazing blue-green fire.

"No, for you already know." She stepped to the side in an attempt to pass him.

"I do not, I can only guess." He stepped in front of her once more.

"You…you are being silly, Erik!" She sidestepped him once more. She inwardly grimaced at how juvenile her retort sounded.

"I am never silly." He blocked her path once more.

"You would be a happier person if you were, dare I say!" She moved again, he moved as well. This was a futile game that she was most certainly going to lose, and she was fuming with rage.

"I am unhappy when you are not nearby." His cold countenance turned to a smirk as his words pierced her soul. It seemed a romantic endearment to her, but it was frightening still.

_Men don't change…_

"Erik!" She screamed his name with such ferocity that he was taken aback. "Erik! STOP IT!" With a force she never knew she possessed she shoved against his chest, her forearms crashing against the hard expanse of his abdomen as she frantically pushed away from him.

Who was this man with so many faces? Why did he demand her subservience after receiving her unspoken devotion and passionate caresses? She gave him everything when he touched her. That night on the grass, the moonlight illuminating their glistening flesh, she had given him her soul. She had broken her marriage vows as she exposed her body to his gaze and begged him to touch her, taste her, enter her. They had not made love, but they had shared something earth shattering.

Their entangled bodies shared a promise with one another's, and in one instant he could forget her sacrifice and her pleasure and look upon her with detached accusation of a detective.

She pushed at him even as he easily lifted her off of her feet and grasped her firmly by the shoulders, holding her back from his body as she raged at him.

"Jesus Christ, Erik! Why? Why do you do this?" Her voice was almost hoarse now, her screams lacking the ethereal, musical quality that her singing possessed. In this moment, she was but a frightened animal, desperately fighting against her captor.

He was most surprised to hear her curse so blatantly. She was definitely not lying to him, and he was most surprised to feel ashamed and deeply embarrassed.

Holding her shoulders tightly, he reached down to grasp her wrists and held them to her sides, stilling her movements.

"Let go!" She pushed against him, but to no avail. He was far stronger than she, and the vice like grip on her wrists kept her immobile, unable to lash out against him in a flurry of violent indignation at his wretched insult.

"Stop fighting and I will let you go!" He roared back, pushing her into the far wall and pinning her in place with his body. He had no intention of frightening her, but he also had no wish to obtain injuries.

"You're horrid!" Her gasp was riddled with both shock and amusement; her eyes wide with surprise as she dangled above the ground with his thigh nestled snuggly between her thighs and his arms hold hers high above her head. She was effectively restrained with little effort on his part.

It was exciting.

It was infuriating!

"Erik…" She struggled once more, her wrists straining beneath his hands, "Erik, put me down."

"When you are calm, I shall release you, but not a moment sooner." He propped his leg up higher, lifting her feet another inch above the ground.

"I am calm!" Another pitiful strain.

"You're lying."

She grimaced, that was the second time he accused her of lying that day.

"You're being unreasonable. Put me down!"

"I'd rather not."

Now he was smirking at her, his angry outburst fading into mild teasing. It was strange. To say he was moody would be a vast understatement. He went from a stalking tiger to rambunctious puppy in less than 10 minutes. It was unnerving. It was unsettling. It was so very…Erik.

"You had best do it, you will grow tired of holding me up eventually."

"I will never tire of holding you."

"I am not in the mood for your affection. I want down!"

"You want down?" His tongue darted out and licked his lips before they lifted in a mischievous, boyish smirk. Perhaps this playfulness was his apology for his behavior earlier, but she was not ready to forgive him. God, it had hurt to feel that coldness in the air and see that distrust in his eyes…

How could a man so strong be so weak at the same time?

"Yes, I want down!" She sounded childish, she knew, but her anger was rising once more. She did not want to be teased or played with, in fact, the more he smiled the more she wanted to slap him.

"What will you do if I put you down?" He raised his visible brow questioningly.

"I will go outside to spend some time away from you."

"Away from me? You have been away from me all day." He was still teasing, but his eyes no longer twinkled with boyish delight at her predicament.

"Yes, and when I returned you were…you were…you were…" Her voice faded as she searched for a word to describe his coldness.

"I was what?" He raised his brow once more, his forehead wrinkling.

"You were mean to me!" She grimaced as soon the words escaped her mouth. It sounded so silly; people accused one another of meanness when they were children, put off by trivial happenings that made most adults scoff.

Mean? Meanness was simple, coldness was not. Coldness was the calm before the storm; meanness was an act of disregard and selfishness. He was a selfish man who disregarded others often, but he had a danger inside of him that went deeper than anyone could imagine.

"You worried me." His expression was stern once more, his arms beginning to tremble as they held her.

"If you don't have trust in anyone you will be a very unhappy man, Erik."

"You are preaching to the converted, my dear." He began to lower her slowly, his body growing weaker as his face aged right before her eyes.

"I think you too often allow your doubts to punish you, and then you hurt others to avoid dealing with your own demons." Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper as she lowered her eyes and brushed at her skirts nervously.

She understood him, but she could not live forever knowing he did not understand her. Or himself, for that matter.

"A prolific statement my dear, but the demons you speak of you have no knowledge of." He stepped away from her and ran his hands through his hair, a troubled exhale exiting his lips. He sounded old and tired.

"I know more about them then you would think."

"No, you really do not."

She answered with an audible sigh.

* * *

Darkness descended quickly, the night air turning cold with the disappearance of the sun. She could feel it coming through the walls as it whistled outside, blowing the trees this way and that. She could see the shadows of the leaves dancing upon the windows.

Pressing her forehead to the glass she let out a harsh sigh, her eyes closing and her fingers rising to knead the taut skin of her face in frustration.

He was a walking, breathing paradox. A two-faced genius. A double-sided wild card.

A protector.

A friend.

A Phantom.

_A lover._

And he was standing at the door, his wig removed, his shirt open and his jacket long since forsaken. He still wore the mask though. It was his armor; he was never seen without it.

"Are you still angry?" His voice was sheepish; his body was leaning against the doorframe absently as he casually examined his fingers.

"Erik, let us pretend for one moment I am you and you are me." He looked at her quizzically and folded his arms across his chest.

"Let us pretend that you went about your day as you normally do, and you came home to me silently raging and roaring about you doing something traitorous. Would that not upset you? Would you not feel like an untrustworthy child, or reluctant prisoner?"

He sighed, but did not reply.

"I never want to feel like I must remain by you at all times, I want to long to be beside you. I want to miss you when are you gone, and I want you to miss me without fearing that I have betrayed you or forsaken you. I do not want to be watched and stalked and confronted unfairly!"

She shuddered and wrapped her arms around herself as she faced the window. Raoul and her would never have these kinds of tense confrontations. They would never need to spend long hours apart to fume over the others perceived transgressions.

They also would never cry out in need, or feel the power of the soul-born connection that drove them together. She was so drawn to that strange, difficult man who hid behind the mask…

She hated herself for it, but she no longer fought against his hold on her.

"I am simply taking precautions."

"No, you are keeping me in chains."

"How odd, I would think you might learn to like chains…" His voice drifted off as his lips curled into the most vile, suggestive stare she had ever seen. She gasped at his horrid implication, her face burning with shame that she was able to understand his provocative and sinful insinuation.

"Stop being such a beast."

"If I were not a beast, you would not be back here." His words rang true; his dark, unpredictable nature excited her even as it repelled her.

He walked up behind her, his steps light as he put his hands on her slim shoulders, his fingers gently kneading the soft skin beneath the satin material.

She sighed lightly, but did not lean into his chest.

"See how you do not run from your monster?" He pressed his lips to the tender skin just below her ear and ran his hands down her arms, the strong hands nearly enveloping her forearms completely.

"Do not refer to yourself that way, Erik." Her tone was serious even as her frown broke to allow a soft, subtle grin to show.

"I am a monster, and I am sorry." He linked his fingers through hers and curled his hands around hers, his thumb stroking the silky softness of her palm.

"You are not a monster, you are simply a difficult and impudent man."

"Do you forgive me?" His lips went lower on her neck as shivers ran up her spine, gently lulling her into sweet submission.

"Perhaps I will tomorrow." She laughed as his teeth nipped against her skin as he wrapped her arms around her body with his own resting atop. She could smell the sweet scent of his breath and feel the strong expanse of his chest covering her back. In his arms she was forever safe, he would never let her go, he would never let anything take her from him.

It was frightening.

It was exhilarating.

He groaned as she pressed into him, her behind rubbing against his pelvis tauntingly.

He had a mind to lift her skirts and have her against the wall, her sweaty palms leaving hot streaks against the glass of the window as filled her and thrusted into her over and over again.

He wanted to hear her scream his name and moan in release. He wanted to feel her clench around him and throw her head back into his shoulder as her body shook with intense pleasure.

He wanted to hold her afterwards, never letting her go as they caught their breath and held fast to each other. Like mates on ravaged ship in a storm they would cling to one another fiercely. If one fell into the black depths of the water, the other would plunge in afterwards.

"You have such a wonderful book collection, Erik." She gently pushed away from him. Now was not the time to fall into his arms. Now was not the time to forget the Phantom lurking beneath the heated, passionate surface of the man who she loved.

The tortured genius that she fell in love with was the man who held her, but the angry and possessive madman was still there. There was a journey to be made, and he had only come half way.

He stared after her blankly, his smile disingenuous and shallow. Perhaps this was retaliation for his gentle refusal to make love to her when she begged and pleaded for him to enter her. Perhaps she was not truly ready to come to him willingly. Perhaps she was still angry.

Perhaps he would never know.

"I take good care of it." He grumbled silently as he waited for his throbbing arousal to quiet.

"I can see that." She scanned the titles with interest, her eyes moving back and forth upon the various covers as her fingers trailed gently over the spines, her fine nails making soft scratching noises against the leather.

"Why must all of it be so morbid?" She reached in and pulled out his volume of Edgar Allan Poe poems and stories. Each and every page was painted with anguish, the black feelings of a black soul laid bare in a series of poetic and meaningful words and metaphors.

Stories of madness, betrayal, and macabre occurrences leapt out of the soft black leather cover. All ended in the hero slowly descending into an endless pit of doom. It sounded dramatic, but there was no other way to describe it.

These stories were the embodiment of Erik. They were he at his weakest, darkest moments.

He had been places she would never dare go.

"I prefer to think of it as realism in its finest form."

"Does your cynicism not become haunting?" She asked.

"Not every story has a happy ending, Christine." His voice sounded far away, as though it were no longer he who was speaking, but a deeply buried part of him.

"But some do." She answered back quietly, her eyes scanning the tales as she flipped through the crisp white pages that were bent in the corners where he had marked his place.

"Those are what we call fairytales." He placed his hand lightly on her hip, reading over her shoulder as she scanned the book.

"Can people not make their own fairytales, Erik?"

"I once thought so."

"If you remain so dark you will surely go mad." She chuckled and then froze, the full realization of what she had said crashing against her like a tidal wave against the shore.

"Ah, madness." He plucked the book from her hands and placed it back on the shelf, making sure not to bend or mark the leather. "Madness, you see, is a place I visited long ago, and it is a place I have long since escaped from."

"Perhaps we are all a little mad." She joked quietly. She prayed his dark, cold reserve did not return at the mention of a history best left forgotten.

"I suppose we are." He seemed distant, yet thoughtful. "I suppose that once we realize that our fantastical illusions can be shattered and know that we are no better than any other mortals, only then can we ascend from madness and accept life as it comes."

"Why do you torture yourself with stories of such grief then, Erik?"

"They remind me of my mortality."

"But they will never give you hope."

"You being here right now gives me hope."

She paused for a moment, the only sound the quiet rustle of the leaves. The only sight the shadows of flickering candlelight on the walls.

"You have so much to give the world, Erik. You do not need me to make you who you long to be."

"Without you Christine, the music never would have soared so brilliantly." His face was close to hers, his eyes seeing into her very soul as his lips nearly brushed against her own. "Yes Christine, I need you to make my other great love thrive. You are my music, no one else but you makes it what it is, no one else lets me know what it can be."

"Oh…oh Erik…" She gasped silently, her eyes closing as she leaned back into him, his words bringing her excitement beyond her imagination. The raw need in his voice called to her, beckoned her to dive into his world. The world she once claimed she would never enter

"In _Notre Dame de Paris, _Quasimodo loved Esmeralda, but he also loved his bells. He abandoned his bells for her, and in the end he died alone. But you, you and the music are one and the same; I can never forsake one for the other. When I was mad, you saved me. You have kept me alive."

She turned and crushed her lips to his.


	21. The Seduction of an Angel

**Chapter 21: The Seduction of an Angel **

**A/N: Well my faithful readers, you have begged, pleaded, raged, and stomped your feet in anticipation of what is to come. Here we have a chapter filled to the brim with naughty goodness. Allow me to warn you that it is quite descriptive, if I do say so myself. Do not forsake this story once the sheets are thoroughly tangled, as our lover's journey is truly only just beginning! There is a lot more to come. **

**Once again, thank you all for your kind and wonderful reviews. Please let me know what you think of this chapter, I value all of your input and opinions. **

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Every picture tells a story, no matter how brief or simple. The look in one's eyes expresses a chapter of their life, a feeling hidden deep within their heart that has been immortalized on a canvas for the world to look upon. Every brush stroke brings to life a soul. In the eyes of painted souls, people can see a reflection of themselves. They can see deep inside the heart of the subject and the artist. Paper eyes and flat landscapes can touch one in ways that can never be truly explained.

A painting captures a moment in time that sails away on the wind, intangible and fleeting. In this moment, Erik felt that he was in a picture, a simple sketch of an unbelievable fantasy that was too beautiful to truly exist in a world as harsh as the one he knew.

The feeling of her soft, full lips on his erased all thoughts and memories of the cruelties of humankind. In this moment he was not a whipped boy or shattered man who had taken leave of his mind through tragic apathy.Where was the world he once knew? That world of humiliation, scorn, and pain?

Now it was gone, a forgotten nightmare that existed only in his mind. Now he was with her, and with every press of her lips and thrust of her tongue, he was taken to a world where there was no more hardship and no more pain. All the ills of years past were erased, forever eradicated from his troubled mind.

He was free.

The chain and shackles that bound him to tortured solitude were severed, the metal clinking as it hit the ground, releasing him from the cold, hateful steel of imprisonment.

His heart was singing.

His soul was soaring.

His body was burning with desire.

She was here, and she was his.

He wanted to touch and taste each and every part of her ivory white skin. Her soft moans drove him to heights of ecstasy he never thought possible as their mouths hungered for one another. The wind beat against the window relentlessly, the trees rustling softly.

A soft storm began brewing outside the sturdy, wooden walls of their private paradise as a wild storm began brewing inside each of them. Gone was the control they had over their thoughts. Gone was the control they had over their bodies. Everything was wrested away from them but the powerful sensation of simply feeling.

Christine wrapped her arms around Erik's neck, her mouth pressing against his as their tongues tangled together in an ancient dance. The soft, wet sounds of their moist lips capturing and releasing one another coloured the air.

The soft flicker of the fading candlelight played across their features, streaking their faces with golden hues.

Christine reached up and gently pried the mask away from Erik's face, her nails gently caressing his hairline like the soft touch of a mother. The porcelain slid away easily, falling away from the angry red flesh and leaving him bare and exposed. She would have him no other way. Tonight they would see all of each other and feel every part of one another's bodies, knowing of the sacrifices they were making with their hearts and minds when they would collapse upon one another after sharing exquisite passion.

She saw every part of him as beautiful. The gold light of the candle made his tanned skin glow. In that moment he looked like a virile, erotic angel sent to earth to awaken in her long-suppressed and forbidden desires. She wanted to give him everything in her body and her soul. She wanted to lie beneath him and feel as though her bare, vulnerable body was his most precious possession.

She may have had possession of her own mind, but her body longed for his touch. In the sensuous thrill that would follow, she would allow him to guide her to heights unknown. They were made to be lovers; it was the intention of a power far beyond their comprehension.

There was no longer the question of morality. There were no longer the fears or doubts. There was no longer the dark, ominous threat of deadly sin slinking behind her like a shadow. There was only hot, burning desire.

She could have wept with the thunderous pounding of heart as one arm coiled around her waist like a tempting serpent while the other rose to place long, calloused fingers into her hair.

He was living her, breathing her, becoming her.

If there were no other human beings on earth but her, his life would have been perfect. All he needed and wanted was Christine. His Christine. No other woman could ever break his heart and mend it with a simple smile as did she. He wanted to enter her slowly, savoring the feeling of his spiritual bride grasping him tightly within the heated depths of her body.

He ran his hands through her hair, twirling the thick chestnut tresses around his fingers as he inhaled the lavender scent, his eyes closing softly and his breathing becoming deeper.

She sighed as her fingers traced the ridge of his right cheekbone, the marred skin rough beneath her fingertips. When she looked up at him and saw his eyes gloriously clouded with undisguised lust, his malformed cheek seemed inconsequential. It was so completely _him._ No other man looked as Erik looked; his face gave him character, power, otherworldly individuality. It was no longer ugly to her because it was a part of him. Her beautiful, passionate, imperfect Erik.

Her teacher.

Her Angel.

Her friend and equal.

Her lover.

His hands drifted lower to grasp her behind as he drew her upwards. She wound her legs around his hips as he pressed her into the bookcase, the old wood rattling as her back made contact with the shelves. It was a comical sound, and an exciting one. It was the personification of their frenzied, careless lust.

Her breathing was ragged and harsh as her head fell back to expose her neck to Erik's ravenous mouth. He responded with vicious ardor, his lips and teeth capturing the soft, vulnerable flesh and suckling it reverently.

Her skin tasted wonderful, the sweet lavender scent nearly driving him to madness as he pressed into her, eliciting a cry of pleasure from her swollen lips. Her head was thrown back wantonly and her back arched without the consent of her mind. Her body was desperate to become one with his, it needed him, craved him, cried out for him.

He had told that she had kept him alive, and now it felt as though his lips on her skin and his hands on her body kept her afloat in the raging waters of the ocean. She was drowning, falling under the surreal spell of his seduction as he held her above the perilous waves, breathing life into her limp and passive lungs.

Fate had brought them together, and then it tore them apart. It now came back with the forceful vengeance of a relentless warrior to pushing them together. All that was right and moral would condemn this display of ravening hunger, but they could not bring themselves to see anything in wrong with something so beautiful.

"Touch me, Erik." Her raspy moan made his blood boil with lust as his fingers longed to tear at the fragile satin garments adorning her body. Beneath the silk and lace was a goddess, a beautiful Aphrodite who longed for his touch.

"Hold on to me, Angel." He pulled her away from the groaning bookcase and tightly held her hips as he inhaled the fresh, intoxicating scent of her perspiring skin. Her arms wound around his neck even tighter, clinging to him as if he would simply dissolve into thin air should she release him.

The wind still beat against the glass, but to them the entire world was silent. Everything ceased to exist but them.

This had to love, Christine thought. No other feeling could ever make the world close in around two people who wanted nothing more then to simply hold one another and pretend that the faces and voices of those who condemned them did not exist. She wanted to be a part of him, an extension of his mind and body.

She wanted to be joined with him so intimately that neither of them would be able to tell where he ended and she began. He had fought to make her his, and she had fought to escape his clutches, only be drawn back into his world of shadows. Now she never wanted to leave. She could not, would not let him go. Not now. Not tonight.

"Erik…please…" She knew not what she pleaded for; her mind was a blur of ecstasy and desire. Bold, scarlet-hued lust was all she felt.

She reached down and began pulling his crisp white shirt from his trousers, allowing her fingers to linger over the sweat-soaked skin of his taut lower back. Her fingers pressed into the base of his spine, finding the feeling of the muscles moving back and forth as he walked mesmerizing. His body looked as though Zeus himself carved it from stone.

He lulled her into silent complacency with soft shushing noises as his fingers splayed across her back, gently pushing her pelvis into his as his breath escaped his parted lips in harsh gasps. She had been unconsciously thrusting against him, trying desperately to alleviate the building but ever-pleasant ache between her thighs.

He had to fight valiantly to resist throwing her down upon the mahogany stairs and having her like an animal.

He felt like a mere animal, a wild beast desperate to mate with the gorgeous, enchanting lady who captured his heart and ignited his lust. He was beyond the point of logic; he was beyond the point of reservation. He was a living, breathing, aching embodiment of lust.

He was blindingly, brilliantly, and dangerously in love.

Christine was nearly sobbing with her need for him. If he had thrown her to the ground and torn her clothing from her body she would have screamed with the overwhelming feeling of release that would follow. She wanted his hands all over her, touching her, feeling her, playing her body with the expertise of a wise and virile musician. Her mind begged her to plead for satiation.

For the first time in her life she truly, desperately wanted to be had. In her darkest forbidden fantasies she had come to him willingly, opening for him and taking him inside of her body. Yet her fantasies were not real, and when faced with the masked man who haunted her dreams, her desires were overwhelmed by her fear. In dreams she was safe, in life she was not.

Yet in his arms, with her legs wrapped around him, nearly sobbing with her desire to have him buried within her, she had never felt more treasured and safe. He loved her, and even though his words were harsh and moods black as night, he would never hurt her. And she would not hurt him.

She was powerless, and she longed for him to master her body. Had he thought of taking her all those lonely nights in the tomb of his own making? Had he lain awake, tangled in his velvet sheets, dreaming of her legs wrapped around him as he had her in any way he desired? Did he reach down to tentatively stroke himself to completion while pretending the hand grasping him was hers? Did he envision her lying beneath him naked and defenseless, wantonly begging for his touch?

Perhaps someday, when she was coherent and daring, she would ask him.

It seemed as though it took hours for Erik to climb those stairs with Christine's limber body coiled around him.

His bedroom seemed to slink further and further into the distance as she pressed hot, wet kisses to his jaw and neck. He suspected that his skin was rough against her petal soft lips, but her hunger increased with each bump of her pelvis against his own as he descended the stairs. Each and every step was torture, his cock was screaming at him to hurry up and satisfy it, but he wasn't listening.

Tonight, he would explore the body of his angel. He would touch and taste every part of her until she screamed in frustrated longing. For almost three years he had fantasized about this night.

He had burned and ached with the desire to remove her pristine white dressing gown and lay her upon his red velvet sheets. Three long years of imagining her soft brown curls spread out on his pillow and spilling onto his naked chest as her chest rose and fell with her deep, even breaths after a night of endless, intense pleasure. Three long years had culminated in this, and god knew, it was not an easy journey. In fact, he was rather shocked that he had made this far.

He thanked the god he had long since stopped believing in for granting him this miracle.

He was going to make love to his angel tonight, and she would love every minute of it. Tonight she would give her body over to him, and he would not disappoint her. He would rather plunge a sword into his heart. He had failed her before, but not now, not when she trusted him so deeply. He had deceived her before, but all the past seemed to fall away as she released longing, sensual moans in anticipation of where he was taking her.

The shadows of the trees played across their bodies as they stumbled through the hallway. Erik's feet pounded against the wood, the heels of his boots causing the floorboards to emit groans of protest as he thundered towards his bedroom, his fair lady holding onto him tightly enough to choke him.

Letting out a low grunt of arousal, he forced her into the far wall, his hips thrusting against her wildly as he captured her lips with his. She responded with passionate enthusiasm, meeting his tongue with her own savage thrusts.

She had been the one to kiss him tonight; offering a silent invitation that caressed his ears and warmed his black and shattered heart. She knew that they would come to this, and she wanted him. Oh god, how she wanted him!

His hands roughly kneaded her bottom as she pressed into him, her body aching for the hardness that was pressed intimately against her thigh.

At this moment Erik was never less of a ghost or a spirit. He was no more than a man, a man who forced her to accept and embrace her own dark passions. A man who would awaken in her the deep, lustful longings that a woman was ever so capable of, yet taught to suppress mercilessly. She would suppress nothing tonight. She would cherish every touch.

He pulled her back from the wall and nearly sprinted to his doorway, kicking the old wood savagely as he supported her with one arm. She fought the desire to giggle nervously at his urgency, but his taut, serious countenance kept her silent. Laughter would most certainly ruin his ardor, and she wanted him to give her everything that he had so long repressed.

She had no time to look upon his elegant surroundings before she was lowered onto his bed, his body never ceasing to rest atop her own. He had not thrown her to the mattress as viciously as she had anticipated, but rather laid her down as reverently as though he feared she would shatter.

He could not help but feel that her pale ivory skin and chocolate brown eyes made her look like a delicate porcelain doll. He would hate to leave bruises, no matter how passionately they were bestowed, upon the perfect canvas that was her body.

_He dreamed of this for so long…_

So long… 

The mattress shifted slightly as he lowered his weight onto her, pinning her beneath him. Christine could feel his heart beating wildly underneath his shirt, the skin pulsating with each and every glorious beat. Her hand was pressed against his chest, silently feeling the part of him that made him so very human and so very alive.

Their lips met once more, the kiss softer this time. He pressed her full bottom lip between his own and massaged tenderly, simply cherishing the fragile softness of it. He stroked her hair tenderly, his fingertips trailing across her smooth cheek as she cupped his face in her hands and pressed a seemingly sweet and rather innocent kiss on his nose. The gesture was comforting, sensuous, and adorable all that once.

"Are you certain you want to do this, Angel?" He swept her hair aside and stared into her eyes, the brown depths darkened by her unabashed lust.

There was no going back now, they had come too far. This coupling was not born out of a need to comfort or reassure one another. It was not clouded by a flurry of emotions that would fade come the morning. It was born out of the need of two adults who wanted to deepen their intimacy and explore their desires.

There were no more teachers and pupils. There was just a man and woman who needed and wanted one another.

"Yes. Yes, I want you, Erik."

No words would ever be as beautiful as those just said. He could scarcely believe his ears. He could scarcely believe she was lying beneath him, but she was. Life was filled with surprises, some of which were oddly pleasant. Or simply miraculous. He did not deserve this, but she did not care about the past. She wanted him as he was at that very moment.

He captured her lips once more as her hands wandered up his chest and nestled into his hair, pulling his mouth even closer to her own. He slid easily between her thighs, his hands gingerly pulling her skirts up to her waist so that she could more easily part her legs for him.

He could still not believe the great fortune that had been bestowed upon his poor, murderous, blackened soul.

She wanted him…

She wanted him as he was, a deceitful liar, a manipulator, an extortionist, a monster…

In this moment, she was choosing him. The surreal sensation of his lips upon her own and her legs around his hips nearly brought him to a sobbing mass of quivering flesh and muscle.

He wanted to simply weep into her hair for endless hours, thanking her for giving his poor, withered heart a second chance at living.

He wanted to worship her for saving him, for seeing in him long forgotten goodness that he did not see in himself.

Like a Phoenix he was rising from the ashes of his old life. The Phantom had a lover, and she was slowing putting the shattered pieces of his soul back together with her tender kisses and gentle caresses. He did not believe in heaven, but he now believed in happiness, and he had never thought such a thing possible before.

He softly whispered for her to turn over and lie upon her stomach, she wordlessly obeyed, moaning softly as he helped turn her. She closed her eyes and exhaled deeply as his fingers began to deftly work the silk covered buttons on the back of her dress.

She could feel him kneeling over top of her as his hands worked the tiny buttons, his breathing ragged and harsh as though he were exposing her for the first time. The light of the moon cast a silvery glow across the blue gown as he finally opened the last button at the base of her spine.

She had the insufferable Marie Rouselle over in the morning to help her lace her corset before setting out to see Meg and Madame Giry. Her stomach coiled in excitement at the imminent anticipation of Erik's fingers deftly releasing her from the confining garment.

He parted the fabric softly, not willing to rip this dress down the center as he did her last one. He swept her hair off of her neck and began to rain warm, wet kisses upon the pale flesh. A low moan rumbled in her throat as his hands spread across her back, gently caressing the criss-crossing laces of her corset.

She rose up onto her knees to shrug the dress down her arms as Erik forcefully pulled it to her waist, his hands nearly tearing into the delicate satin in an attempt to free her from it. She held fast to the black velvet coverlet as he undid the tapes on her skirt.

He had a taste for dark elegance, as his boudoir somewhat resembled a bordello of sorts itself. The walls were scarlet red, similar to those in her bedchamber at home, but the furniture was rather gothic. His bed was adorned with black velvet and had a rather oppressive black grate as a headboard. It was frighteningly masochistic, yet dark and daring in a way that was most exciting.

It suited him well. She also found it was very much to her tastes.

She kicked out of her skirts and lay back across the velvet wearing an ivory corset and sheer chemise. The contrast was ravishing; his eyes could not to drink her in all at once. His pure angel was swathed in virginal white and lying across his sinfully coloured coverlet.

She had entered Hades underworld dressed as a lady of the summertime. The power he felt intoxicated him. He also found himself oddly pleased that he was not taking a virginal lover; there would be no pain or awkwardness to spoil their night of rapture. She would welcome him easily.

He also found himself thanking good fortune that he was not coming to her a virgin. That would certainly cut their night rather short.

She sighed as she rolled onto her back and sat up to straddle his hips once more. She lowered herself onto his lap and began to kiss and suckle his neck hungrily, marveling at the steady throb of his pulse beneath her lips. The rough skin felt rather pleasant against her lips and chin, as did the movement of his throat against her mouth.

She pulled his shirt out of his trousers completely and began to pull the fabric open frantically. She had never wanted to feel someone's bare skin against her own as badly as she did right now. She felt she would perish if she could not have him, all of him, as soon as was humanly possible. There was a deep, forceful need building in her belly and spreading across her entire body.

The fine hairs on this chest were slicked with sweat, which she initially thought she might find distasteful, but instead felt overcome with sensual admiration. He had never looked so powerful. His skin was damp with perspiration, his eyes had turned a dark shade of blue, and his hands were steady and insistent as they pushed her onto her back and gently pulled her stockings down her legs.

She had always feared giving herself over to a man completely, as the thought of a larger, stronger, passion-besotted gentleman removing her clothing and seeking entrance into her body seemed rather daunting. The knowledge that she would be small and defenseless underneath the body of her husband or lover frightened her. Even when she coupled with Raoul she felt mildly immodest, although not in any danger of any sort.

Now a man whom she knew was dangerous was slowly, tantalizingly pulling her stockings down her legs. His shirt hung open over his chest, his hair was wetted to his neck and forehead, and his belly was rising and falling harshly with his excitement. She felt like a virginal maiden about to be ravished by a strong, mighty knight who had just jumped down from his great black steed and picked her up like she was naught but a feather to bring her to his tower of shameful, hidden pleasures.

She scoffed inwardly at how silly she sounded to herself, thinking of medieval romances during a time such as this! Erik was not a mighty knight, as he had allegiance to no one. She could picture him on a great black steed though…

Her wandering thoughts were silenced when the confining sheer material that coated her legs was finally, blissfully removed. He had flung them somewhere, where she did not know, or care for that matter.

He was lying on top of her once more, his lips traveling down her neck as he shrugged out of his shirt completely. He gently turned her onto her stomach to attack the laces of her corset. Gone was the gentle reverence of before, and in its place was his animalistic desire to press Christine's warm skin against his chest rather than her whale-boned shell.

"Christine," he rasped out sharply as she felt her body jerking with each and every frantic pull of his hands, "you do not need to wear one of these, in fact, I will be most pleased if you never cage yourself in one again."

"How improper would that make me, Erik?" She gasped teasingly.

"Now is not the time to speak of propriety." He punctuated his seductive whisper with a thrust of his tongue into her ear. She had found that a somewhat odd sensation, but not a disagreeable one.

He pulled the laces apart at long last and tore the garment open so fiercely that Christine feared he would break it in two. He was breathing more like a beast than a man; it was wildly intense, and unbelievably exhilarating. Her heart swelled with pride that she could do this to him, to this strong, determined man.

She let a harsh sigh of relief as the hateful garment was tossed aside as carelessly as her stockings. She had never felt so completely and utterly free, so blissfully alive.

Her chemise was molded perfectly to her body with the dampness of the moisture coating her skin. It hugged every curve and caressed every inch of her. Erik supported himself on his elbows as he lowered his body onto hers, his mouth suckling at the base of her throat as he moved one hand upwards to stroke her thigh.

His hand moved up slowly, memorizing each and every inch of skin. He felt her hipbone, the soft, gentle curve of her waist, the rise of her ribcage, and the fullness of the underside of her breast. Her breath caught in her throat as one large, long-fingered hand cupped her possessively,

She was so incredibly soft beneath his hand. Her hardened nipple jutted out against the thin fabric of her chemise and grazed his palm. He applied slightly more pressure, gently squeezing. She moaned in response, arching her back and pressing further into his hand.

The sound nearly drove him to a kind of blissful madness that he had only experienced in his wildest, and mostly unfulfilled fantasies. He moved his palm over her again, his fingers grazing the painfully erect nipple as he pressed harder, needing to claim each and every part of her body as his own. She gasped when he squeezed even harder and he drew back, his brows knitted together in concern.

"Did I hurt you, Angel?"

"No, no." She gasped out. "Erik, please…please don't stop." She sat upwards and caught his lips with hers, her hand fisting into her hair as she linked her fingers through his and brought his hand back to her breast.

He lowered her to back once more and resumed his relentless assault on her body. His hand drifted to her other breast, cupping and squeezing as hard as she would allow. Her hands pressed against his chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles around his nipples and stroking the fine curls on his chest. She wanted to memorize every part of him. She admired the hard, well-muscled feel of his chest, the soft skin of his belly, and the line of thick, dark hair that began just below his navel and disappeared into his trousers.

Her hands splayed across his lower back, the hard flesh involuntarily flexing as her fingers grazed the golden skin. His back was a mess of scars and uneven abrasions, the pink and white tissue smooth yet jagged. Her fingertips touched each and every rise of angry broken flesh tenderly, stroking it as though it were the finest, softest skin she had ever touched.

Both of her hands ran over this back and tangled into his hair, pressing his head into her breasts as he groaned softly. He flicked out his tongue to wet one erect nipple through her chemise and sucked the hard peak into his mouth as his hesitant hand made its way to her center.

She moaned loudly as his lips closed over her nipple, his tongue teasing her mercilessly. Her soft moans nearly turned to ecstatic screams as his hand closed over her feminine mound. She instinctively felt the need to jerk back, but instead found herself pushing against his fingers.

For a moment she was worried that her overzealous response might have disgusted him. She even briefly considered apologizing breathlessly, but her thrust into his hand elicited a most satisfied grunt from him and he pushed against her harder. The feel of her lace drawers against the burning, throbbing bud was almost unbearable.

She knew that the lace was absolutely soaked with her want, but the wetter she became the more he played with her. It was sweet, sweet torture. She simply closed her eyes and moaned out his name softly over and over again, an erotic prayer on her lips.

He lifted his head from her breast and she groaned as the cold air chilled her already pebbled nipple. His hand remained pressed to her womanhood, his fingertip pushing gently against her bud, marveling at the feeling of her moisture seeping out of her and coating his hand.

"Does that feel good, Angel?" He rasped.

She could not respond, but rather created the most musical moan he had ever heard. It was long and rather drawn out, starting softly and ending in a crescendo that made his heart soar with triumph.

It was answer enough for him.

Her head was thrown back and her arms were stretched above her head, grasping the silk covered pillow in her moist fingers, twisting it with each and every way as a maddening pulsation tore through her lower body.

Pulling his hand away despite her cry of protest, he grasped the hem of the chemise and began to draw it up over her body. He could see the liquid staining her drawers, and the taut skin of her stomach. He flicked his tongue into her tiny sunken navel as her back arched off of the mattress to allow him to slide the garment over her head, baring her almost completely to his gaze.

She looked ravishing. Beautiful. Perfect.

Her tiny pink nipples had seemingly begun to swell, the distended nubs straining, begging for his touch. He once again was troubled by the concern that he may have hurt her; perhaps he was being too rough. But god help him, he could not stop…

Cupping her naked breasts in his hands he moved lower, his lips tasting the silken flesh of her stomach as he descended lower and lower.

She started, was he going to do that thing with this tongue…?

He was.

She nearly screamed as she felt his hot, pink tongue dart out and boldly graze her sex from top to bottom. She screamed his name wildly, her fingers twisting the silk pillowcase so tightly she was sure she would shred it.

There was something tantalizing about his tongue flicking her through her drawers, something darkly sexual. He was touching her intimately, but a barrier still lay between his tongue and her hot, wet warmth. It all felt so very scandalous, and infuriatingly coy. He was teasing her, promising her intense pleasure but forever postponing it with each confidant sweep of his tongue.

He held her thighs apart with his hands, spreading them open as far as her aching muscles would allow. She was gloriously, deliciously exposed to him. She felt vulnerable and indecent, and so overcome with dark, undiscovered pleasure.

Her shock never ceased when he brought her legs up over his shoulders and simply moved the pesky lace aside to make heated contact with her throbbing sex. His lips closed over her bud, drawing it into his mouth and coating it with moisture. The muscles in her thighs began to clench and unclench wildly, pressing into his back forcefully as he made love to her with his mouth.

He ran one fingertip across her soft pink folds. They were quite, well, pretty. He found his mental vocabulary rather lacking at this time. Her womanhood was so very delicate looking, baby soft and lacking the plumpness that Sofia and the other women he had seen in pictures had.

He found the taste of wet feminine flesh intoxicating, no essence was sweeter.

She let out a scream of intense pleasure as her pelvis began to contract wildly, her muscles seemingly pulsing against one another in the most pleasant, soul-shattering sensation that she had ever had the great fortune of experiencing.

Her legs clamped around his back as her pelvis thrusted upwards, nearly slamming into his nose.

Once her body stopped jerking spasmodically she lowered her legs and tried desperately to catch her breath. She was sure that her heart was going to beat right out of her chest, never had she felt so gloriously, deliciously winded.

He knelt between her thighs, his lips glistening with her wetness and his hair disheveled. She had never seen something more beautiful, she thought to herself wickedly.

Sitting back upon his haunches, he was most surprised when he felt her press her naked chest against his.

His angel was insatiable, and their night had just begun.

He lowered himself onto the mattress, pulling her atop him and running sweat-slicked fingers through her unruly brown curls. His fingertips grazed her cheek gently, admiring the soft shadows of her lashes against her porcelain skin. He touched her lips gently, his fingers tracing the lines and contours of her full, swollen mouth.

Christine left her fingers drift to the coarse hair below his naval and followed the trail slowly until her thumb brushed the first fastening on his trousers.

A wash of certainty overwhelmed her. Was a wanton woman not an evil woman? So many years of moral preaching assaulted her with vindictive philosophies about purity and goodness.

Yet, if Erik were the dark man with allegiance to no man or woman alive, and therefore not a follower of society's principles, surely he would welcome her passion. He probably would demand it. She felt herself fall a little more in love with him at that moment.

"Come, Angel." He whispered softly into her ear, his hot breath tickling the soft cartilage.

Her hands shook slightly as she began to slowly, clumsily work the fastenings. She had never seen a man's sex up close before. She had always been curious, as most young innocent girls would be, but had always pretended that the thought of one either brought her wild disgust or incited mock indifference.

She remembered an incident that brought her a mixture of both shame and mirth. She and Meg had often spoken of male anatomy in giggling, girlish terms with the necessary grimaces and chuckles. They were eleven years old at the time, and the stories of the older and somewhat worldlier chorus girls had been seeping through the paper walls for some time, entering the pure and untouched minds of those of a purer persuasion. They were met with great luck when a gentleman who often frequented the Opera Populaire purchased and displayed to those willing to look, a fine painting of a very strong, very muscular, very defined, very naked man.

In the brief glance that Christine was afforded at the golden Greek's appendage, she found herself rather disappointed. It was small and quite ugly. It hung loosely over two golden orbs and had a fat, bulbous head. It was downright comical, and completely lacking in grace.

She had scarcely seen Raoul, as they had not touched or caressed one another prior to coming together as husband and wife. She never felt the need to reveal it to her curious gaze.

Now as her fingers worked to free Erik from his trousers nervousness crept upon her like an ominous shadow, robbing her fingers of their dexterity. She would see him, feel him, and touch him. She wanted to, she wanted to caress the part of him that was straining so pitifully against the confines of his trousers. She wanted to gift him with the immense pleasure that he had given to her so selflessly mere moments ago.

She wanted to, but still she was frightened.

Erik did not know if her hesitation stemmed from her fear of taking him inside of her at long last, or her lingering maidenly fears of intimidating or upsetting her lover with her assertion.

Nothing she could do in the name of passion or desire could ever make him draw away from her.

Placing his hand on top of her own, he deftly unfastened his pants and placed her hand on him, wrapping her warm fingers around his length. The feel of her, his gloriously beautiful, innocent angel, touching him so intimately nearly made him long to weep. It did not seem possible that she could hold him like this, her touch hesitant and so achingly gentle.

Her breath caught as she held him in her hand for the first time. It was the first time she had ever taken a man into her hands. It was a lovely and unsettling experience all at once, and his harsh, labored breathing excited her more than the feel of the soft, pulsating flesh in her hand.

He was much larger than the man in the painting…

His male flesh was by no means attractive in the conventional sense of the word. When one thought of beauty they thought of roses or sunsets, and this thing resting her hand, this strong yet vulnerable organ, was not exactly pretty. But it was him, and it was evidence of the desire that she ignited in him. That symbolism alone made it breath taking.

Forgetting her reservations, she began to pull his trousers down his hips, desperate to feel his naked skin against her own. He lifted his hips off of the bed and pushed the hateful fabric away, needing to feel her tender, curious touch on him once more. He did not believe in heaven. He had given up hope of eternal paradise when he was far too young, but when he lay on the bed, naked and vulnerable with his angel touching him intimately, he was within the gates of immortal ecstasy.

She ran her hands up and down his length curiously. He was unbelievably hard and firm, yet coated by velvety skin.

His hand stroked down her arms and grasped her hip as she touched him, his groans becoming more guttural and pronounced. She was learning his body, his soft grunts and subtle moans providing her with instruction and tutelage as she caressed him gently.

"Stop…stop…" He stilled her hand with his own, his heart beating wildly. If her ministrations continued she would be most disappointed, and he would rather die than disappoint her on a night as special as this one.

Her brows knitted together quizzically as he stopped her, her eyes drifting to see the grimace displayed across his features. His eyes were closed tightly and his lips were pulled back from his gritted teeth as though he were struggling to lift a heavy object.

With barely a second to question his sudden change of heart, the air escaped her lungs as she was slammed onto her back; his heavy body coming to rest atop her own as his lips captured hers once more. He was murmuring something in her ear, his words breathy and harsh.

"Do you want me, Christine?" He parted her thighs with his own and ran his fingers up the inside of her thigh, his sex coming to rest against her belly as the smooth skin of her thighs surrounded his hips.

"Yes…" She breathed out her response, her voice wispy and longing.

"Tell me you want me." He grasped her thighs and slid them upwards to rest against his waist.

"I want you, Erik."

"You want me inside of you?"

"Yes, yes. Oh god, Erik, yes!"

Reaching down, he deftly griped the side of her drawers and tore the fragile lace in two, a savage grin spreading across his face as he threw the tattered material aside. She nearly squealed with a mixture of shock and wicked delight.

He pushed against her, his sex barely penetrating her, waiting for her to move and welcome him deeply inside of her.

He had dreamt of this moment for so long, but never truly believed that it could happen. Never did he think she would really be lying beneath him, open for him and pleading for him to make love to her. It was all a fantasy, a beautiful, torturous, unfulfilled flight of fancy. Until now.

She moaned as he pushed in further, his breath whooshing out of his lungs as she grasped him tightly, her legs closing around him as she caressed his face and swept her fingers into his hair.

He reached for her hands and linked his fingers through hers, the gesture binding them together in every way imaginable. Pressing her bottom lip between his own, he buried himself to the hilt, her fingers clenching around his as a moan escaped her lips.

In that moment of physical joining, all the world was perfect.

Christine adjusted to the feeling of him resting inside of her. Neither moved, but just lay there basking the sensation of being deeply, intimately connected.

He began to move, slowly at first, simply allowing the sensation of her body enveloping his to wash over him.

She ran her hands up his back, feeling his muscles become taut as he withdrew and surged forward, her body rocking with his movement. Her gasps and throaty moans were coming of their own volition with each and every thrust of his hips. He was moving within her, the ease and smoothness of which was incredible.

She hitched her legs up even higher, locking her ankles locking against his back as her body slipped over the velvet sheets as he surged forward once more.

He was so heavy and strong on top of her, his hard back and chest a stark contrast to her soft skin and supple curves. She wondered if he was as fascinated by her softness as she was by his strength.

With each and every thrust she craved a harder, more forceful touch. She longed to be taken in everyway imaginable by this strong, hard man who she trusted with all of her heart. She was giving herself to him, and he was taking her so gently, his lips brushing her face and neck with soft, passionate kisses.

She rocked her hips upwards and grasped his shoulders, her hands moving down his back to cup his behind and push him further into her as she released a near scream of pleasure.

He reached for her hands and pinned them beside her head. Her eyes widened for a moment, that dreaded fear of being open and vulnerable returning for a fleeting moment before he pushed into her with more force than before, his groans becoming more animalistic.

He was quite surprised at how little she held back when vocalizing her pleasure. He expected soft murmurs and harsh breaths, but instead he was greeted with tortured moans and near shouts of need. If he had not known any better, he would think her cries were false, but her heated skin and clouded eyes proved otherwise. She was simply a loud bed partner. It was wonderful, absolutely wonderful in every way imaginable. She let him hear her pleasure, and she made him feel like a king.

It was solid, written-in-stone proof that they were born to be lovers.

Their palms had begun to sweat as he moved faster than before, his muscles bunching as he gave her everything he could muster.

He buried himself in her and began to move roughly against her pelvis, his movements stimulating the bud that made her scream with release.

Her moans became more ragged and hoarse, soft cries of his name soon followed, propelling him to thrust against her with all the might in his body. He was so close, so close to releasing all he had deep inside of her.

With a final scream of pleasure she released, her body contracting around his as she pushed her pelvis into him, grinding against him with a strength he never imagined she could possess. She pulled him deeper into her, her arms wrapping around him desperately, clinging to him as though his very presence breathed life into her body.

In a moment he followed, his essence pouring into her as he let out cries of his own. Together they laid like that, their releases exhausting them as their fingers intertwined intimately.

"Oh, oh Erik…" Christine kissed his forehead and cheek softly, her breath cool against his heated skin.

He buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the sweet scent of her arousal and satiation as she softly cried out his name over and over again.

He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them gently, his eyes closed to fight back the tears that threatened to flow freely. She had given herself to him, had begged for him to touch her, and had cried out his name in ecstasy. She had returned to him and made him feel as though he were the most brilliant, handsomest man on earth. He did not deserve such a fortune. He did not, he did not, he did not…

He withdrew from her slowly, not wanting to break the sacred contact between them. Pulling her to rest against his chest he moved her hair off of her neck and ran his fingertips against the moist skin gently. His fingers moved up and down her spine softly, the gesture one of affection rather than titillation.

Her fingers splayed across his chest and felt the throb of his heartbeat. In that moment there was no time for regrets or questions of what was right and good. There was simply the heartbeat of the man who loved her, and the man whom she had fallen in love with even as she fought him.

In the morning the doubts would come, but for now, no darkness could haunt her.

* * *

**A/N: Sooo, was it good for you? Bad joke, sorry lol.**


	22. Of Memory and Reflection

**Chapter 22: Of Memory and Reflection **

**A/N: I am very sorry for the lateness in updating. I had a ridiculously busy last few weeks and have been rather preoccupied with bothersome RL concerns. Regardless, I offer my apologies and hope this chapter makes you all happy. R'N R, I love to hear from you!**

**Sarah Crawford: Thanks for all of your reviews! I have not read anything by Becky Meadows actually, any similarities are coincidental.**

**MagicalMe: Wow, you can't imagine my surprise to wake up one morning and find 15 reviews in my inbox! Thank you so much!**

The morning came quickly, the sun rising as it does each and every day across the earth, never caring for the trials and sufferings of those who are granted its golden rays. It was truly a morning like any other. The thick black curtains parted slightly to allow bright yellow streaks to creep through the air and land upon the wooden floor. The wind rustled against the glass. The outside world made its squeaks, chirps, and whistles.

Yet the darkness that Erik had come to call his own seemed distant, but not gone. No, it was never wise to abandon caution or embrace ecstasy too swiftly, lest one once again be ravaged by the heartbreak of disappointment. However, this dawn was not one filled with trepidation and bitterness.

In the opera house it was impossible to distinguish night from day when he was swept away by his music. Hours would pass him by and never would he think to eat or sleep; such things were trivialities not worthy of his concern. Surely no one would miss him should his health decline; barely anyone knew that he was a flesh and blood human being.

He was a story, a mere legend used to frighten impressionable girls into obedience. The tale of the vengeful Opera Ghost kept stagehands from entering the cellars alone or at all. The very idea that a malevolent specter was haunting the catacombs kept the superstitious weary. Power is an intoxicating and potent aphrodisiac, and Erik found himself satisfied by the fear that shrouded the opera house like a cloak.

He was never content, but there were days where he was not as angry as was warranted. Some nights he was able to forget the circumstances that kept him an entombed prisoner and simply embrace the world he created.

The Opera Populaire was its own private paradise - colourful, opulent, and brimming with majesty. Erik was the silent ruler, never allowing his subjects to question his authority or reveal him for what he was: a scared, reclusive boy dominating a world that he knew would never welcome him. He hid from them while he commanded them. He feared him while inciting their fright. He hated them because he could not be one of them.

Why could he not be a gentleman like the other well-dressed fops coming and going with hearty laughs and leering eyes? Why could he not have been born with a perfect face? Why could he not stroll about carelessly with a woman on his arm and his eyes on a dancer?

Why could he not be that love-besotted lad who came simply to look upon the singer or dancer whom he fancied himself in love with? When he became a young man he often fantasized that he was one of those charmingly lanky young boys thirsting for a glimpse at the angelic figure who caught his eye and claimed his heart with a simple smile.

He imagined himself finding a woman who would swoon over his roses and love letters. Before Christine came into his life and made him into a madman, he would often watch the patrons with amused detachment, wishing he could be one of them despite his resentment. When he was fifteen he saw a rather skittish and nervous young man playfully accosting an equally playful ballet rat. He would reach out and skim his hand down her shoulder and she would gasp and swat at him with a fan. They bantered back and forth, she calling him a rogue, he calling her a saucy tease.

In his cynicism he would scoff at their pitiful, childish teasing, but in his moments of reflection he knew what truly ate away at his heart was envy. That boy never realized how beautiful, flirtatious teasing could be, and how special it was to receive such playful affection. He hated that boy, and he would have given anything to take his place.

Just when he had resigned himself to a life of solitude under the motherly eye of Antoinette Giry, a child came. She was broken by grief, refusing to accept that she was truly alone in the world. She was a tiny, homely sparrow with broken wings, hobbling along the ground with no chance of taking flight.

In that pitiful creature he saw a bruised and battered boy who had wished for wings more than once. If she wanted them, he would give them to her. He was a hardened young man then, but he still felt a deep sadness for the glassy eyes of a tortured child. Children were so young and ignorant; it was unfair that they learned such things as loneliness, hate, and despair.

When that indistinct, mousy child wished for the angel that her father promised her, he felt compelled to say something, anything. She wanted a friend, and so did he. She was a child, he was a ghost. He thought that perhaps two lonely spirits could comfort one another.

He spoke to her in the chapel very softly, claiming to be the angel who had so long neglected his poor, broken sparrow. Never had he seen such a somber face brighten to the point where it was almost unrecognizable.

The dark chapel was formerly drab and gray, the lights of the candles casting weak glows upon the cold stone. The darkness that coated the little girl like smoke seemed to lift and fade away. The sun shone through the stained glass and the cold child's face ignited, turning from a cool gray to a sparkling gold in seconds.

She was elated. There was no time for skepticism or confusion. She had asked god for an angel, and an angel had spoken.

He remembered the fear in his heart when she jumped to her feet and looked about wildly, her little feet rushing along the stone as she pressed her tiny nose to the window, looking for a ray of sunshine indicating the presence of something heavenly. Never in his life had he experienced that sort of childish glee. If he could bring that radiant smile to her plump, tear-streaked cheeks, he might have a chance of humanity after all.

And so they spoke.

And then they sang.

He encouraged her to be the greatest she could be, often coaxing her to forget her fears of disappointing the world and her father's spirit. He told her that if he saw brilliance in her, the world would dare not disagree. He was not lying; no one would dare take away the dreams of that beautiful, sad little girl with the great voice and tiny body. As long as he was living, she would be treated like an angel. They shared a gift, and if he could never express it, he would give it to her.

Their friendship was never perfect; she often becoming annoyed with his demands and he often becoming exhausted with her lack of belief in her genius. He saw in her a talent beyond measure, a voice sent from the heavens above, if there was such a thing. She saw nothing inside of herself but a mediocre chorus girl and struggling dancer.

He had wanted nothing more than to come out of his wet, desolate hiding place, fall at her feet and praise her for being a goddess. He wanted to shower her with compliments and praise and swear to her that if she saw in herself what he saw inside of her she would become a sensation greater than any other.

Yet she was young, and the young are often unsure of themselves and their abilities.

He worked with her more and more over the years, singing with her and taking her voice to new heights with each lesson. Sometimes she would swear his demands were beyond her, but he would simply say that he knew all, and he knew that her capabilities would one day astonish even her. She tried even harder because she trusted him. He was her guidance and light - the teacher who would ensure her great triumphs. She was his protégé, the embodiment of his artistic creation. She was also his friend, if he could call her such. Nothing more, nothing less.

Then one day he saw her at dance practice.

He had never truly watched her dance before, as physical movement, though enjoyable to watch on a somewhat perverse level, had never been his forte. Yet one day, he saw her. Perhaps it was fate that led him to the stage. Perhaps it was simply curiosity. Perhaps boredom.

He did not know. But he went there, and his life was changed.

He had been wandering in the flies, keeping his black-clad form concealed in the dark shadows whilst watching the frantic movements below him. People scampered about, shouting and laughing and carrying things here and there. Long hair twirled, canes tapped the floorboards, and shadows moved along the floor beneath the harsh lights of the stage.

He saw her then, clad in a suggestive scarlet slave girl costume. She was looking somber and troubled, as was her usual countenance. She was talking with Meg Giry, often glancing about the stage and nodding as opposed to speaking. She was such a troubled young woman, only offering a small smile when he would come to her in the chapel.

Yet when she began to move with the music, somewhat awkwardly at times, he noticed that the sparrow had turned into something more elegant and beautiful. She screwed her face into a look of concentration, knitting her brows together and pursing her lips as she moved. Yet her long, graceful arms were bare and moving sensuously about her. Her stomach was firm and taut, flexing with each and every bend. Her breasts pressed against the fabric of her bodice, the outline of her hardened nipples visible beneath the sheer material.

He was horrified.

His fantasy had gone beyond tearfully sharing in her first great triumph as a prima donna. It was no longer about making a small child smile and giving his gift of music to one who would turn it into something beautiful to share with the world.

He wanted his pupil.

He wanted her as his lover.

He watched more as her graceful body moved, her curves fuller and more womanly. He stared at her unruly brown curls and imagined them spread out on his pillow, spilling onto his chest as she clung to him. He imagined those soft, full lips on his own, those doe-eyes staring at him longingly.

He slunk back to his lair like a dog, his expression grim and his gait stiff.

He drew the coldest bath he had ever had, throwing his clothes haphazardly about his lair and punishing his burning body with the icy cold plunge. He sat there, shivering and brooding. His skin seemed to tighten over his muscles as it screamed in silent agony from the torture of slow freezing. His entire body seemed to pucker and shrink, his feet becoming numb within seconds.

He drew off of his mask and wig and held his face in his hands while he trembled. He rubbed the raw skin of his right cheek, the mottled flesh rough beneath his fingers.

_I am a monster… _

_I am a creature…_

_I am an animal…_

He hated himself for being unable to go to her as a suitor. He hated himself for wanting her. He hated himself for knowing that he couldn't have her.

He hated her for being beautiful and mysterious. He hated her for not knowing that she was singing with a man who was harboring horrid fantasies of her stretched out naked upon his bed while he did unspeakable things to her supple young body.

He hated, he hated, he hated, he hated!

With an animalistic roar he surged up and out of the tub, the icy droplets of water dripping down his body and pooling on the floor below. His entire body was numb and every muscle ached. He did not bother to grab his robe or a towel, but rather fought the dread in his stomach and stepped towards one of his velvet-covered mirrors.

Sweeping back the curtain, he looked at himself. He was ugly, deformed, and naked. He was pitiful, hideous - a creature worthy of scorn and contempt.

No woman would want his face pressed against her own. She would not want his clumsy hands all over her body; his heavy frame perched awkwardly on top of her own. This was who he truly was. Without the cover of dark clothing and his porcelain mask, he was no more than an awkward, clumsy, naked man.

He had thinning hair on the right side of his scalp and a ravaged, hideous cheek. He was tall, scarred, and hairy.

Women moved their bodies with grace and agility. Their nudity inspired great painters; many saw the body of a woman as art. His nudity inspired in him nothing but embarrassment. He hated his face, his scar-ridden back, his hairy chest and stomach, his limp, dangling manhood, his furry legs. He was disgusted with himself. Surely she would be even more repulsed.

Men did not look like mythical creatures while nude. Women loved them for what he could only see as their pocketbooks and charm. A nude woman had the power to take the breath from a man's body. A nude man most likely inspired giggles and smirks in girls and women all across the world. A man could be handsome and built like a warrior, but when he was naked, he was still hard, hairy, and in possession of an awkward, dangling appendage. Women were smooth, trim, and graceful.

There was good reason why male dancers were not squeezing themselves into revealing, sheer costumes.

They would have looked comically ridiculous.

And they at least had faces.

No, his little sparrow could never take him as her lover. He was not handsome. And he was certainly not charming.

With that, he put her aside. He decided that their lessons would become infrequent and short. There would be no idle chitchat or superfluous banter.

He swore to himself.

That very night they sang together and he watched her long after he claimed to have disappeared. He followed her to her chambers, staring through the mirror as she stripped to her chemise and laid upon her bed in thoughtful reflection. He had tried to make out the shape of her breasts through the thin material and hoped against hope for her to briefly part her thighs so that he may gorge himself on a glimpse of her lacy drawers.

Like a lecherous pig he slunk away from her and returned to his lair, only to furiously sketch his memory of her lying upon the crisp white linen of her tiny sheets. The brown walls that surrounded her he imitated to perfection, along with the shadows of the moon that splayed across her porcelain skin.

He drew her delicate hands, one arm resting above her head and the other lying by her side. He grew hard as he got to the outline of her tiny breasts, covered demurely by her chestnut curls. He drew her slim hips and bent knees.

His face turned redder and his body grew harder as he decided to leave his creation unclothed, imagining what she would look like had she been waiting for him instead of lying in bed alone.

He was nearly panting when he completed his fantasy drawing. She was lying on her bed as naked as the day she was born, her body open and waiting for his ugly, hideous form to materialize before her.

He realized with horror that he made her expression one of abject terror.

He opened his pants and brought himself shameful release, and then he wept for the treasure that would never be his.

The days went by as they always did, and with each rising and setting of the sun he fell more and more in love with her. He loved the way she smiled when she was amused, the lilting sound of her laughter when she spoke, the exasperated stares she would give Carlotta on days where the diva could not be appeased.

He loved the way she sang with all her heart and soul.

He loved the way she bantered gaily with her friends when her moods were bright.

He loved the dreamy stare in her eyes when she was deep in thought.

He loved her so much it ached.

He knew if he did not earn her love in return, he would surely perish.

His every waking moment was consumed by her. Her scent, her voice, her laugh, her walk. All of it was perfection.

And that was when the love turned into something dark and dangerous. Something insatiable and more powerful than he had ever imagined. He was a slave to his obsession, and he had lost her.

Now, fate, which had been so cruel to him in the past, was seemingly giving him a second chance. His angel was in his arms, and she knew him as no more than a broken, lonely man who had fallen hopelessly in love her.

She no longer called him her angel, nor did she shyly ask him for guidance when she was unsure of the heights to which her voice could carry her. No longer was he her teacher who longed to be her lover.

He was her lover.

It seemed unreal, as though one such as he did not deserve such a gift. He had murdered, stalked, and forced her to choose between the death of a lover on her conscience, or a life of forced solitude with a man who hated himself more than he could ever hate her bothersome, pesky fiancé.

When he began to unravel at the sight of her, he imagined a gorgeous white wedding and a blushing bride. He imagined being taken from his private hell and lifted up to the sunlight. They would purchase a home in Paris and walk together on Sundays. They would go to the market together and live as a husband and wife should. He would always be reclusive and dark, but she would bring light into his dower existence with every touch, laugh, and smile.

He thought that the land of the living would welcome him once he had such a beautiful, innocent, perfect creature in his arms. She would never know depravity or pain while she was with him. He swore to himself that he would give her the world and protect her from all that was unpleasant.

He never realized that it would be him who she would need to be protected from. He never thought that he would become the darkness from which she tried to escape. He did not realize that in order to win her love, he would need to force her to remain in that dark tomb of despair until she came to love him, or hate him to point of passivity.

He never knew the heart-wrenching sadness that would occur.

And he never knew the joy that could be had when past mistakes were erased with tender touches and intimate kisses.

Even if his angel were to be ripped away from him in a moment, he felt as though he had been given a second chance when he least deserved it.

He knew that he loved her before. The moment he saw her a woman - a beautiful, sensuous woman - that she would forever be in possession of his shallow, embittered heart. He fought for her, he cried for her, he silently begged fate to make her love him. When he knew that he had driven her away from him, he simply confessed his love brokenly

Even if she hated him for all that he was and all that he had become, he had to tell her somehow that he never meant to hurt her, that he only wished to make her his.

She gave him the ring, a simple, sad gesture. A gesture of rejection of sorts, but also a memento. She had given him a tangible memory and, in a way, she had given him her blessing. She had told him she did not hate him.

He told her he loved her.

She said nothing.

The Phantom would have gripped her around the waist and refused to release her. Erik sadly let her go, and he had lost her. He was not going to force her to be unhappy with him in his cavernous lair of eternal darkness.

But he never truly her let go, for she was now there with him, sleeping in his arms, her breath even and soft.

How had he come so far?

How had his fantastical plan to approach her in her home and persuade her to stay with him turned into this?

Perhaps he knew that it would. Perhaps he only wished it. Perhaps he never knew what he was doing, or even why. Yet none of that mattered anymore, at least not at that moment in time.

She stirred gently in her sleep, a sigh escaping her lips. He saw no need to awaken her, or even pry himself from the soft covers. Today was the one day he would allow himself peace, the same peace enjoyed by any normal man and woman who saw fit to love another and spend the rest of the morning basking in the afterglow.

He curled around her, his arm wrapping protectively about her waist. He sighed into her hair, inhaling the rich lavender scent.

They could spare a few more hours.

* * *

Meg did not expect to see her mother when she awoke. Antoinette Giry was not a woman who sat in idle laziness, no matter how early the hour.

Years of waking each and every morning with an extensive list of tasks and duties had made boredom her enemy. When there was always something with which to occupy the body, the mind remained appeased.

The clamor of the opera house occupied her during her most troubled hours - hours that were consumed by worry for the strange, fading man who lived beneath the opera house. She had done one of the greatest, most courageous deeds of her life when she rescued a poor, whipped boy from the cruel hands of sadistic master. She saw injustice in its greatest form, and she could not stomach the anger that began to tear at her heart.

She could not simply stand by and laugh at the child in the cage. Nor could she seek amusement in staring at his disfigured, malformed face. He had done nothing to deserve such a fate, and she felt her frightened soul leap with joy upon seeing that vile Gypsy fall to ground after that tortured boy strangled him without mercy or remorse.

A small justice to the world. A most deserved vengeance.

Little did she know that she would be paying for her nobility until her dying day. She never regretted saving Erik, but she regretted not forcing him to get over his childish bitterness and make a place for himself in a world that would dearly benefit from his brilliance.

She could never understand his fears or his pain, and so she left him to rot in that hell of his own making.

Meg cleared her throat once, the sound soft and quiet. They had not spoken much in the past week, often coming and going with simple farewells and returning with not much more than a nod.

The icy silence had faded into despair. They were never more at odds.

Every morning Meg would hear her mother's heels clicking on the floor as she rustled about with her cloak and reticule before leaving to do whatever it was one did when they were living with another person who might as well have been a stranger.

Even on the warmest and brightest of days, the sky would seem cold and gray.

Meg had grown tired of it. Antoinette had simply been patient.

"Have you nowhere to go today, mother?"

She said "mother" with such detached coldness that Antoinette wanted to cry. She, of course, did not cry. Petty expressions of emotion seldom won one credibility or success. A pretty young flower could weep prettily for the attention of an opportunistic suitor. An aged, strict, practical ballet mistress chastised, reasoned, and discussed.

Besides, tears made others uncomfortable. They spoke of instability and brokenness. They incited pity and empty words of comfort. There was always time for tears when one was alone. She was not alone now.

"Not at the moment, no. Sit." She pulled out the chair across from her and patted the wooden seat. It was not a demand, but rather a suggestion. It was one she expected to be taken to heart.

She was correct. In fact, she was rarely wrong. Rarely did 'not necessarily' mean never.

Meg wrapped her cream-coloured dressing gown tight around her body and sat down, her slim frame shivering in the coolness of the morning. The apartment walls were rather thin, the papery plaster never allowing much protection from the chill. There were muffled voices above their heads and below their feet. Husbands and wives were bidding each other good day as they came and went. Footsteps and horse hooves had begun to pound the cobblestones outside, but they were still few and far between. Once noon came about, the streets would come roaring to life.

"Cold?" Antoinette asked.

"It's always cold in here."

Antoinette nodded in agreement.

"Perhaps we should go shopping for warmer linens and clothing come September."

It was Meg's turn to nod in agreement. At least making indefinite plans offered the hope that the black, smoky air that suffocated them would be somewhat clear someday.

"I would like that."

More silence. Meg played with the sash of her robe while Antoinette stroked the rim of her teacup thoughtfully. Both looked out the window, their hands resting beneath their chins.

"I think you have some things to say, Meg." Antoinette looked at her then, her eyes capturing those of her daughter.

"I don't know what to say. If I did I would have said it by now."

"I can be a very patient woman when I must." Antoinette sighed and sat back. She let her steel spine dissolve slightly. If she was going to be sitting for a while, she might as well make herself as comfortable as a wooden chair would allow.

"I want to know…" Meg stopped and cleared her throat before becoming silent.

"Continue."

"I want to know why you are letting this happen." Meg swept her hair from her eyes, roughly pulling it behind her ears.

"Letting what happen, dear?"

Antoinette knew, but she would rather pry than assume.

"Letting Christine do this to herself. To her husband. To everyone."

"It is her choice, Meg…"

"No! That's not good enough! I know that it is her _choice,_" she bit out sardonically, "but I want to know _why _she would make such a _choice_."

"Meg, sometimes it is impossible to know why people make certain decisions. We simply must accept that it is their right."

"And their funeral," Meg said coldly.

Antoinette's first instinct was to scoff and demand that her daughter refrain from such morbidity, yet under the circumstances, the cruel cliché was warranted.

"Who are you angry with? Christine or me?"

"Both," she said thoughtfully. "I am angry with Christine for throwing away a life so longed for by so many opera girls. I am angry with her for running in fear from the same man whom she is quick to run back to the moment her husband slips out the door. How dare she cry and moan about how much he frightens her? How did she dare sit in the chapel before that garish, salacious play and cry to Raoul about how she was going to be taken away from him? How does she saunter back to that 'deranged, murderous madman' and claim that it's love? Who is she to demand a handsome man come save her, only run back into the open arms of the captor? Mother! It doesn't make any sense, it hurts my head just thinking about it!"

Meg was nearly hysterical, her voice raised and shrill. Antoinette shushed her harshly, motioning for her to lower her voice.

"Meg, sometimes people are afraid to admit that they want something because it is wrong to want it," Antoinette reasoned softly.

"If wanting it is so wrong, then surely there is a reason for it to be so."

"Of course, but sometimes it hurts more to deny that need, that want."

"It hurts one to deny themselves a nice new coat. It hurts everyone to leave one's husband for a murderer who burned down the home of all who she knew, loved, and cared about."

"Meg, I'm not saying that you are wrong, you most certainly are not. I am saying that unless you are Christine, you cannot truly understand why she is doing what she is…doing." Antoinette sipped her tea. It was cold.

"Why do you support this…this madness?"

"Because I love them both and they deserve to test the waters that have been wetting them for long."

"You cannot love a monster."

Antoinette froze and brought her cup back to her saucer very slowly, her eyes turning icy and cold

"If people like you did not call him that, he would not have become the man he became."

"If he did not behave like one no one would have called him that," Meg reasoned petulantly.

"He was beaten and caged in a freak show when he was ten years old. Did you know that, Meg?"

Meg did not respond, but rather looked at her hands and sighed.

"When I found him, he was put on display for all to see. They were jeering and laughing, throwing half-eaten food into his cage. They called him the most horrible names, accused him of being a bastard sired by Satan. A Gypsy had him caged and clubbed over and over again until he would show his face. Surely a child cannot be a monster unless the world makes him that way."

Meg's eyes went dark with reflection. Her mother's revelation was horrifying; the thought of any child or subjugated human being suffering such inhumane treatment made her shudder. For a brief moment, she shared in her mother's indignation.

She straightened her shoulders and sat upwards.

"He certainly did not become a saint."

"No." Antoinette began. "He did not."

"I am sorry…" Meg paused for a moment. "I am sorry that he was born looking the way he did, but he hurt people, and he used their fear to steal from them, too. Why must you and Christine make him into such a martyr?"

"Not all martyrs are as pure as Christ himself, Meg."

Meg laughed. "They most certainly are not, if our Phantom qualifies as one."

"I think he deserves a healthy mix of condemnation and compassion." Antoinette reached for her daughter's hand and squeezed it gently.

"But why does Christine want him? She is not simply his friend, she must be…she must be his…lover." Meg lowered her eyes modestly; such things were not spoken of so explicitly between family members.

"Sometimes a woman needs a lover who challenges her and makes her question who she is and what she wants."

"I see." She didn't.

"And sometimes…." Antoinette stiffened, not sure whether or not it would unwise to embark on such torrid territory with her only child, but knowing it was necessary, "sometimes fear can be very…exciting."

"Oh." Meg pursed her lips and nodded. It made sense. Somewhat. All of the girls spoke in hushed tones about the Opera Ghost. Many cautioned others to be careful of walking alone in the corridors, lest the Opera Ghost come out and ravish them where they stood. There was always a queer element of erotic fantasy to the warnings, and they were always accompanied by nervous giggles and naughty grins.

"But maman! Christine is married, that makes it even more sordid!"

"I know that love, I hear you loud and clear."

"But we shan't say anything, I assume."

"Never." Antoinette was as still as a stone, her fierce dedication to her wayward, wandering adopted children never wavering.

"What of the Vicomte?" Meg asked warily.

"Christine shall deal with him."

"Will she?" Meg asked.

"If she wants to be a woman with two hearts and two men at her beck and call, she will grow into the role in time. She will learn to protect herself and her lover, and she will answer to herself long before she answers to her husband. In time she will decide to whom her loyalties lie, and she will decide her own fate."

"And what if her lover wishes to decide for her?"

Antoinette laughed, "Then she will have to show her true strength and quality."

"How?"

"She will let those men know who she chooses, and she shall be direct and certain."

"She needs some of your strength, maman."

"She will have it someday dear, living the life she is leading. God knows that she will need it."


	23. Of Secrets and Lies

**Chapter 23: Of Secrets and Lies**

**A/N: Thank you all so much for your reviews thus far, they encourage me like you wouldn't believe. Here is the next installment, I hope you enjoy it. I will be going to NYC next week and will not be updating again until early September. When I do come back I will be bursting with Phantomy inspiration, as I will be seeing the play on August 24! Oh, there is a bawdy reference to Dario Argento's not-so-great POTO in here. See if you can find it!**

**Huge thanks to my beta, Prying Pandora. **

* * *

For the past week Raoul had been feeling strange, but he was never one to act upon intuition, as the mind often works in strange ways that are best ignored should one wish to preserve his sanity.

He had plenty to worry about as it was. In fact, it would seem that ever since he came of age and took the world on headfirst, he had done nothing but worry. He feared that he would end up one of those bent, wheezing invalids who cough and choke on their meals and upset young relatives with their crazed ranting about the government. He had known several men and women like that as a youth, and he often humored them with wide, fake smiles and forced chuckles.

Old age seemed to destroy the strongest of souls and leave them withered and confused. The brilliant minds of yesterday simply became the raving madness of tomorrow.

Those whose lives were too difficult or too simple often succumbed to the dementia that left dinner guests with nervous laughs and knitted brows. They eventually became so consumed with their own misery that they could speak of nothing but their outlandish fears and embittered thoughts. Their bodies suffered too.

He feared that he would become the one whose hands shook so badly that the expensive, aged red wine would spill all over the white silk tablecloths of the guests who felt obligated to invite the broken, crazy old Vicomte to dinner.

It was rare for him to think so much, as he used to feel as careless as the breeze, acting upon his desires with childish enthusiasm and pleasant abandon.

Yet in the past year he had known nothing but fear and despair. He dealt with a Phantom, a scandal, hostility from his family and peers, and now he was the victim of blackmail. He had a slowly fading black eye to show for his more recent troubles.

He was 21 years old, and he felt like he had aged ten years in six months.

It seemed to him like he was always being used. Poor, poor Raoul - always caught in the middle of something and never being able to play the hero.

He was used because he was stupid.

He was played as a pawn by a madman who wanted the love of his wife. His life was put at stake as a means of coercion, which fortunately did not work to the benefit of the evil genius who took such pride in his own sordidness that he was not able to identify that the chief weakness in his despicable scheme was himself.

Sometimes Raoul loved irony, but he felt mildly uncomfortable with the smugness that crept into his heart and produced a smirk whenever he thought of his broken opponent weeping like a child from a simple touch.

He hated him too much to care about his pain. If a kiss was his undoing, so be it. He was gone from his life now and he certainly held no love for that creature. It was funny, Raoul thought to himself, as he was not one to mock the misfortunes of others. He had done so as a boy, but only because he needed the camaraderie of other noble children. If one could poke fun at an overweight boy who had a stutter they were granted the acceptance of masses. Well, the masses that truly mattered at least. Or who were supposed to matter.

Nevertheless, his childhood mocking had left him feeling empty and cruel, and so he refrained from hurting the bodies and feelings of those whose insecurity and awkwardness just begged for bullying. He did not like to see the defenseless attacked, it was unjust and wrong.

Perhaps the Phantom may have once been a victimized child, but he became an evil, lecherous, disgusting, dangerous snake of a man. He did not deserve pity. Raoul would not give him any.

He did not have time to worry about old romantic rivals anyhow; he was more concerned with untangling himself from the mess he was entrapped in. He needed to get home. He needed to get home very soon, for something was gnawing at him and unfurling in the pit of his stomach.

Something felt wrong. A change in wind, or so the old adage went. Something about the wind was certainly different, and he would be damned if he could figure out what it was.

Then again, perhaps the stresses of being beaten and blackmailed had made his mind wander down a torrid path. He had conquered his greatest enemy mere months ago; surely he was simply over-reacting due to the trauma of his past battle.

His stomach churned with unease even as he reasoned with himself.

It was raining again, as was the London way. The skies were always gray and dark, the coal-shaded clouds leaving the cobblestone streets drab and cold.

The clouds seemed most content to rest over top of him, crying their icy tears and showering him with their misery. He often felt like joining them in their wretched weeping.

Here he was, a young husband and heroic savior of his fair lady, getting pummeled by a beady-eyed minion in a game room for trying to save his fortune and his peace of mind.

He felt a deep sense of shame as he brought his fingers up to touch the swollen skin on his cheek. He and Philippe looked much better now, but the humiliation and resignation had turned their complexions pale and dulled their eyes.

Scars and bruises that were visible often faded with the passage of time, yet the markings often went much deeper. Memories never disappeared, and neither did shame. He was wounded because he was reckless and naïve. He believed that the word of a family member was a good one, and he hadn't the strength to follow the instinct that screamed at him to run as far away from Philippe's carriage as fast as he could the day it appeared outside his comfortable home.

He heard footsteps coming towards him, the rise and fall of the feet heavy and tired. The floor creaked ominously, but he did not turn to face the figure in the doorway.

"Drink?" Philippe asked. He swished the liquid in his glass and brought it to his lips, swallowing deeply and closing his eyes as the fluid burned his throat. Even the smell of whisky made him feel lightheaded, but he was not drinking for pleasure. He was drinking to get drunk, and he didn't care.

Raoul turned and shook his head.

"It will make you feel better." Philippe walked up to him and set his glass down on the table. The room was almost too dark to navigate in his mild state of inebriation.

"Doubtful." Raoul hated whisky. He hated most liquor, actually. It was a serious faux pas and unforgivable sin against his class, but he had little time to care. The deeper he plunged into the darkness of his troubled mind, the less he cared for the trivialities of society.

When he was strung up with the Phantom's noose he wondered to himself why he ever cared whether or not his jacket matched his cravat or if his swords were polished to perfection. When one is faced with danger in its truest form, they often look back upon their petty concerns and wonder how such small things could ever bother them so.

He used to be thrown into humiliated shame when he would spill something on his waistcoat. Now he could not help but berate himself for the silliness of his thoughts.

After all, a stain on the clothing was nothing compared to being on the brink of death or personal ruin.

And why was his heart hammering so fiercely in his chest whenever he thought of Christine?

Surely she was all right, the good Madame would throw herself in front of a galloping Clydesdale before she would allow his wife to come to harm.

The threat to his wife's safety was gone. It had been swiftly and easily taken care of months ago. Her freedom had been granted and sealed with a kiss, one might say.

He would have laughed at his own pun if he were not in such a foul mood.

"I am going to get you a drink anyways. You need one."

"I won't drink it, it tastes awful."

"Of course it does. You'll feel fine after a few sips, though. A means to an end, dear boy. I know best." Philippe sauntered out of the room and whistled as he walked into the hallway and disappeared around a corner.

"You know best, do you?" Raoul muttered under his breath and sighed. If he could recall correctly, and he most certainly could, Philippe had brought him here. He had said it was the right and dutiful thing to do. In fact, he had insisted that rejecting their kind uncle's offer would be an affront to loyalty.

Raoul had listened blindly. After all, he was young and recovering from a perilous event, what did he know about the politics of business and duty?

Poor, poor Raoul, he thought to himself once more, always willing to do the right thing and never succeeding once he gets there.

He sighed when he heard Philippe's elephant steps thundering up the stairs. He walked heavily when he was drunk; you would think he weighed as much as a horse.

"For you." Philippe passed him the drink and Raoul sniffed it distastefully.

"You realize that this will end up on the floor in the water closet by morning, do you not?" Raoul swished the liquid around with a grimace of disgust painted on his features.

"Oh!" Philippe swatted his shoulder absently. "Be a man and stop your incessant whining!"

Raoul grunted and downed the glass swiftly. Had he been free to act upon his first impulse, he would have gagged and contorted his face dramatically. It tasted awful, like a strange, pungent chemical of sorts. He was not a man of science, so he could not identify what he was envisioning, but he knew it was unpleasant.

"This shit is terrible!" Raoul slammed his glass upon the wooden table.

"You say that now, let me get you another."

Before Raoul could protest Philippe had thundered out of the room. It truly sounded like he was an enraged animal about to track someone down and beat them, what with the urgency in his gait.

Philippe returned with another glass, to which Raoul took and downed just as swiftly as the first. He also grimaced and swore again.

The drink was truly awful, but his legs had begun to feel pleasantly warm. He also felt less constrained and more honest.

"I wish Jean were dead." He looked to the window and watched the brown water form puddles between the stones on the pavement. A slim man dressed in a brown coat ran through the street towards the nearest pub with a newspaper perched atop his head, the yellow light illuminating his body as he ran to grasp the heavy door and escaped the punishing English weather.

Philippe's eyes narrowed in thought.

"That's just the drink talking, Raoul." He patted his brother on the shoulder and sat upon the sofa. The room was still so dark; he could barely make out the shape of the furniture.

"Does the drink bring out the truth?"

Philippe thought for a moment, his hand coming to rest under his chin.

"No," he paused, "the drink makes us say things that may or may not be true, but are simply declarations of our desires at that point in time."

"I see." He didn't, not really anyways.

"Well, think of it this way," Philippe sat up and clasped his hands on his knees, "when a man is drunk he will try to charm the ugliest beast in the room. It is not because he wants her necessarily; he simply wants a female body and figures that hers would be most willing. You may say you want Uncle Jean to be dead, but what you really want is to be free of him. Alcohol makes us exaggerate and misunderstand our desires, which is why we often feel regret and confusion the morning afterwards. Think of whisky as the ticket to the train away from your own mind. It's a nice journey from time to time, but a dangerous one too. It's about time you learned that."

"Do your loyalties still lie with Jean then?" Raoul questioned accusingly. "Do you still want to be in his good graces because he is family and rich? If I recall, it was you who threw the first punch, why the change of heart?"

"Raoul." Philippe sighed dejectedly, his patience becoming short, "If we were to… well, you know, we would be found out and ruined in every way imaginable."

"I wasn't suggesting that we kill him!" Raoul laughed then, his face looking boyishly amused. "If I did not know any better, I would say you are the one harboring the illicit fantasy here, not me."

Philippe scoffed, but his face had become ashen. He had thought of killing Jean. It was a normal desire to want to defend one's honor and reputation, was it not? He, however, had the civility and good sense to know that such an action would bring upon the law and the knife-wielding guard dog who nearly slit his throat during their last confrontation.

He didn't want to believe that fear had become a deterrent, but it had.

Both men remained silent for a few moments more as the rain pelted the window.

"Fantasy or no fantasy, the man remains alive, unless he keels over from heart failure," Philippe said.

"If he keeps eating and drinking as much as he does now, we wont have long to wait."

"Pity," Philippe joked sadistically.

Raoul smiled, his lips twisting into a grin imagining being rid of his uncle after one too many morning sausages. He immediately felt ashamed of his heartlessness, but could not bring himself to truly care. An odd paradox of emotions it was, masochism and ethics.

"Philippe?" Despite himself, Raoul felt that scared, unsure little boy coming to the surface. "What are we going to do?"

"Bide our time for now," he answered absently.

"I see."

"You want to get home, I imagine?"

"Of course I do."

"The little lady will have to wait; more pressing matters are at hand here."

"I disagree. I would much prefer the company of my wife."

Philippe scowled inwardly. That showgirl was half, nay, most of their problem. Had she not been resting peacefully in the silk-covered marriage bed neither of them would be sitting in a dodgy London hotel nursing injuries and drunkenly debating the ethics of murdering a family member: a vile, ruthless family member, but a De Changy nonetheless.

Philippe decided that this time and this time alone, he would bite his tongue. He was tired and disgruntled as it was.

"Perhaps we should leave for a bit, get some fresh air, charm some lovely English roses. What say you to that?" Philippe asked.

"I say 'no'."

"You are a great bore, Raoul."

"You're a fine one to talk, you with your poncy attitude and elite disposition!" They were joking, somewhat.

"I'm not in the mood to be a gentleman tonight. How does a brothel sound?"

Raoul nearly dropped his glass and gasped, "You're joking!"

"No, not really. I'm almost completely serious, actually."

"Good God! You're mad! I am married, and you…"

"Are not?" Philippe finished for him.

"It shouldn't matter whether or not you are married! Your idea is debauched and…"

"I am not in the mood to be a gentleman, I told you so mere minutes ago."

"I am repulsed. I can almost smell the filth just thinking about it." Raoul's face contorted into a look of revulsion, as though he just smelled something vile and unpleasant.

"Ah, you're as exciting as an old woman." Philippe straightened his jacket as he stood.

"Not wanting to soil myself with a whore old enough to be my mother does not make me an old woman."

"They have gorgeous young girls there! They often have cute names too, sweet sounding things like Cinnamon and Honey Suckle." He laughed gaily, the whisky giving him an added bounce in his step. "Come Raoul, it will take your mind off of things. We need this release now more than ever."

"I would rather go to the gaming hall and play cards, to be honest." Raoul did not move from the window.

"Cards do nothing for the body, boy."

"My body is fine the way it is."

"Suit yourself." Philippe shrugged on his jacket and stepped into his boots.

"Philippe, this is truly disgusting." Raoul shuddered at the thought of taking a woman not his wife. He enjoyed the feeling of being gripped tightly by a woman's warm flesh, but he did not hunger for it with insatiable lust. He could admire a lovely woman without wanting to ravish her on the spot. Such was the way of a randy teenager, not a full-grown man.

Was it not?

Either way, he was not one to fuck. He preferred to make love. In his bed. In his home. To his wife.

He attended a brothel once as a lanky sixteen year-old, but the woman had done no more than pleasure him with her mouth, which left him quivering with embarrassment. She said that her name was Rose Velvet Lips, which made him want to laugh. He would have, if he weren't dying of shame at the time. If it were not for the persuasion of his naval comrades he would never have set foot into the seedy brown building that smelled of lilacs and moonshine in the first place.

In fact, he preferred to pretend that outing never occurred. It was best for his conscience if he did so.

"I'm leaving now Raoul, this is your last chance…"

"No."

"I'm really going, are you su…"

"Yes!"

"Sit here and mourn and brood and seethe all you want then." Philippe chuckled to himself and walked outside. He spent enough time worrying and brooding. Tonight he was drunk and resigned, and he needed some company. There would be plenty of time for plotting how to disengage himself from the mess he was in. Tonight was not that time.

Raoul watched him leave and shook his head in disgust.

* * *

Christine had made a promise to herself that morning she woke up with Erik wrapped around her nude body. She had promised herself that no fears or doubts were going to make her regretful of what she had done.

Was it wrong? Yes.

Was it immoral? Certainly.

Should she be in the midst of shame and self-loathing? Indeed.

Yet, she wasn't. She was in his bed and in his arms because she wanted to be. There had been a time when it was the last thing she wanted. Well, no, that wasn't right either. It was more accurate to say that there was a time when the last thing she wanted was to want him.

She had good reason to fear him. For every gentle caress and thoughtful word there were outraged bellows and strangulations. Well, he had certainly never tried to strangle her, but she knew that it was an art he was capable of.

Yet an entire week had passed, and never did she feel the guilt or shame that she had expected to come crashing down upon her like lightning - a lightning bolt sent by the Lord himself to punish her for her immorality, of course.

She had always giggled as a child when warned that a silver bolt of lightning would not hesitate to strike her dead should she misbehave. The threat was a frightening one, but the picture it created in her mind's eye was almost comical in nature. She still behaved herself though, so her mockery did not come with defiance.

Now, as an adult woman, she tried to think of all the people she knew who should have been struck dead by the hand of a vengeful God who still walked the earth each and every day. In fact, the heavens did not seem to pick sinners off on a whim at all.

If they had, she would not have had her lover.

If there was such a thing as immediate smiting, he would have surely been vaporized that morning for what he had done.

She would have faded into a cloud of black smoke as well, for letting him do such a thing.

Why did the memory bring such a naughty grin to her face, she wondered with amusement.

The week had gone by so quickly it was as though every hour passed them by in less than a minute. Time did not stand still when one was having fun. Yes, fun would be a good word to describe the lightness that seemed to have coated the cold, dark home. The bliss could certainly not last forever, but it could last for a few precious hours at a time.

Christine dreaded her inevitable return to the world of the living, for this fantasy was becoming more and more consuming. It was drowning her, and she wanted nothing more than to sink into it as deeply as possible, consequences be damned.

She stepped into her shoes and opened the door, the sun immediately blinding her as she lowered her head and brushed her hair out of her face. She had stopped bothering to pin it up, Erik much preferred it down. So did she, actually. She felt free and less confined, wild and sensuous even.

There was no feeling more relaxing and glorious than the feeling of his fingers weaving their way through her curls. She treasured the way he would sigh and inhale the scent; it made her feel like a goddess. It was vain, she knew, but the feeling of being worshipped so reverently was an addiction she was coming to love. When she heard his murmurs of sensual endearment she would go weak in her knees and close her eyes, simply basking in the glory of being free to feel.

Rules no longer existed. He was the man who made her feel special, and she was the woman who made him feel human, a being worthy of love and affection.

She saw him sitting upon the grass, his face lined with pensiveness even while he smiled softly.

Christine said nothing, but rather simply sat next to him on the grass and stared at the reflection of the sun upon the river. The grass had grown longer and more unruly, it seemed, as the thick green blades came up to her wrists when she laid her palms flat upon the earth.

He did not speak, but rather smirked and patted his lap innocently.

"No." She laughed and swatted his hand away as it moved to caress her thigh.

"Oh?" He went to lie back on the ground, his upper body supported on his elbows.

"We had our…"

"Yes?" He was grinning. He never truly smiled, only grinned. The muscles of his face would only allow him to express the tiniest bit of amusement.

"Our 'go' this morning." She found she blushed less and less these days. What was the point or purpose? He had seen and touched every part of her and heard her beg and plead for more. Modesty was superfluous now, and neither seemed to mind.

The last time she had blushed down to her toes was when he came in to the water closet while she was bathing and simply lowered himself into the tub behind her the morning after they had first made love. She was used to bathing alone, as it seemed a rather private and personal thing.

She had entertained the thought of having him join her in such an intimate setting, but had never imagined that he would actually do it.

He reasoned that their antics of the night past had rendered them both in need of bathing, and what would be the sense in wasting water for two baths when one would suffice?

His logic was impeccable; therefore, she saw no choice but comply with his reasoning. She smiled wickedly to herself in memory of her equally as logical justification.

A lot of water had ended up on the smooth tile that morning.

She had again blushed when he informed her that he would be going into town to purchase some French letters.

The thought of buying those had made her nearly shudder with humiliation. Erik had no such fears, which made sense really, as he was not one to care much about the petty disapproval of others.

That trait had kept him alive.

And she was content with him making the dreaded, yet necessary purchase. He would receive little to no condemnation from the leering eyes of the Parisian selling the salacious purchase. She would have been immediately deemed a harlot and a disgrace to the angelic, virtuous, untouchable quality that was womanhood. Proper womanhood, that is.

Neither of them dared to discuss why the French letters were so important. Both knew that a pregnancy would…complicate things, to say the least. To carry another man's child would not simply be the ultimate treason against her husband, it would bring too much reality into the blissful fantasy that they had created for themselves. Neither could allow that to happen. Neither was ready to conceive of the possibility of binding one to the other through a child. It would be remarkably unfair to the infant, and the final nail in coffin of the mother.

No, a baby would be a truly terrible thing indeed.

Besides, Erik felt his stomach coil into hard knots of jealously at the thought of his lady giving up her body to something that would drain her energy and cause her pain, physical and otherwise. She was his and his alone; he was not willing to share her attentions with an infant. He would work around her marriage in time, but for now, he wanted the world to contain no one else but him and her.

He had never fantasized about starting a family with his Christine, he only wanted her.

"You should take advantage of my energy now, I'm an old man." He ran his hand down her arm, marveling at the delicacy of her wrist before linking his fingers through hers.

Christine thought for a moment. How old was Erik?

"You're not old." She had guessed him to be in his mid-thirties or so.

"I am, quite. Compared to you, I am as ancient as the pyramids."

"Right. Since you are joking I assume you're in a good mood this morning?"

"I'll be in an even better one if you come sit." She smacked his shoulder indignantly when he lewdly patted his pelvic region. A gentleman he was not. He dressed like one, spoke like one, and moved about with the elegance and grace of a privileged aristocrat. Yet the words that came out of his lips in the heat of passion made her burn with shocked excitement. His fine, velvety smooth voices beckoned her to do the most shameless things, yet his silky tone was often complimented by her breathless replies.

His smooth tone often turned gruff and barbaric when he was aroused, and his striking eyes would burn into hers. He was not afraid to ask for what he wanted and pursue it should he so choose to. His lack of social convention was frightening and arousing all at once. She admired him for his honesty and his unashamed acceptance of his passions and desires. She feared her own desire to give into the freedom of allowing her own restraints to pool at her feet like several of her fine dresses and succumb to the voice and body of the man who urged her to free her soul and trust him.

"Perhaps I shall take you up on your offer, should you tell me one thing…"

"Hmm." He had begun to drag her onto his awaiting lap as though she were no more than a pliant, feather-light rag doll.

"Age, monsieur?"

"Old. Come here."

Christine wished for a fan to dramatically swat him with.

"No, no, no!" She wriggled free from his grasp and smiled inwardly at the petulant scowl that crossed his unmasked cheek when he hesitantly released her. "Answer the question, and I may just take the lovely seat that you're offering me so selflessly."

"Will it be sufficient to say that in a few years time, it will be you lifting me up onto table tops?"

"If I were to do that, I would at least have the decency to have closed the blinds first." Memories of the morning flashed behind her eyes.

"I told you, closing the blinds would have been useless, it would have blocked out the sunlight."

"You hate sunlight." His hand snaked around her to squeeze her hip and bring her closer.

"I do not."

"Liar."

"I much prefer the view in the light, then."

"You're an animal." Their lips met softly, both smiling as they kissed each other gently. She rested her forehead against his and moved into his lap, her legs dangling over his thighs as he cradled her as though she were a child.

They often took on these roles when they would lie together. He would reach for her urgently and she would crave his dominance. When they were speaking to one another over supper or walking about outside there was no such dynamic. They spoke easily, often touching, but always discussing without overshadowing or dismissing the other. Never did his voice bellow out over hers, forcing her into silence or complacency. Never would she accept his rough, possessive nature without scowls and rebuttals of her own.

Yet when they were lying upon the soft sheets of his bed, she longed for that gruffness to overwhelm him. She burned at the thought of his rough hands and punishing kisses. She felt safe when he pressed his body into hers forcefully; she often wantonly begged for more animalistic abandon. It was exhilarating, freeing, and dangerous. And she trusted him. How could something shared in trust be wrong?

She briefly reminded herself to look up "nymphomaniac" in the dictionary. When she was much younger, she had heard a woman call La Sorelli that name behind her back. Confused by the term, she had looked it up and was shocked to learn that it referred to one so consumed by sexual desire that it rendered them insane.

Nothing but insanity could explain her insatiable need to be loved with passion and force. Yet, she was not concerned. Not yet, at least.

He kissed her neck softly while she ran her fingers through his hair. He nearly swooned when she stroked the soft strands with the pads of her fingertips. Christine knew that he treasured every loving touch and caress. He would sometimes still flinch slightly when she would grasp him suddenly, as though he was expecting her to take a mighty swing at his jaw.

"I'm thirty-five."

"Hmm?" She had her head against her shoulder with her eyes closed. The sun was warm against her cheek.

"A tired, grumpy, temperamental, randy old man."

"You are all of those things with the exception of 'old'," she replied.

He was silent, but it was a comfortable, companionate silence.

They only had two days left together, and the thought of her leaving him was becoming more and more difficult to bear. She did not want to, he knew this. Yet she would, even if he wanted him, she would return to her home and dashing Vicomte. He expected as much, but he could not stomach it. He dreaded becoming the wreck that he would surely become when she packed her ridiculously large bags into the taxi and headed back to the world of aristocratic privilege.

"Don't go," he whispered in her ear.

She shushed him gently and pulled him in for a long, languorous kiss.

He pulled back, but she grasped his face in her hands and kissed him into silence once more.

She had to leave soon, but she didn't need to think about it just yet. She could pretend for one day more that he was never the murderous Opera Ghost, she was never the infamous object of his obsessive affections, and her young and brave husband whisked her away from him to live life in peace. Boring, uneventful, dishonest peace, but peace nonetheless.

She could pretend that it was normal to be eating breakfast, only to have strong hands lift her up onto the table and jerk her skirts up around her waist while kissing her until she became breathless and excited. She could imagine that every day she had to plead for her overzealous lover to draw the curtains, lest someone look into the kitchen window and see him thrusting against her while she tried to stifle her moans with her fist.

She could imagine that he was her husband, and that she was not leaving another man to believe in a lie. She could pretend that she and Erik were starting life anew, the tragedies of the past erased and forgotten.

"Please don't go." He grasped her so tightly she feared she would faint from lack of breath. His head was nestled in between her neck and shoulder and his breath was hot against her skin.

She could not get enough of him, of his body, his voice, and his soul.

When they held each other they spoke of endless promises that words could never do justice to.

"Let's not talk about this now, Erik."

"We will need to speak of it soon, Christine. You know this."

"Yes," she began, "but let's have tonight and worry about tomorrow when the morning comes."

The breeze blew her hair into her face and he swept it away gently.

"The morning will come very quickly."

She sighed.

"It always does."


	24. Dishonesty be the Key to Salvation?

**Chapter 24: Dishonesty be the Key to Salvation? ****  
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**A/N: Whew, it's been awhile! I've been busy in NYC and with preparing to go back to school and whatnot, not that that's an excuse! I saw Hugh on stage, he was fantastic! And if it's any consolation, Terpsichore, I thought of you as I watched the play (or at least a few minutes before lol). Now that school has begun I'll write whenever I can, so don't give up on me, fair readers! Thanks for all of your thoughtful reviews thus far, I appreciate them! **

**This chapter might be a little bit shorter because this story is going to start transitioning into the 1874 aspect permanently. Consider this section the denouement of the blissful sexual awakening, but note that the story is still far from over, and drama beyond your imagination is on the way!**

**

* * *

**One night more. It began as one day more, but days never lasted long. Nor did nights, for that matter. The waking hours slipped away rapidly, the sun falling lower and lower in the sky until the bright blue faded to a dull orange. It was not an entirely unpleasant sight, nay; painters had been inspired by the loveliness of the consistency of nature for centuries. Young lovers watched the sky change while basking in the thrill of innocent romance. 

Yet the thief or murderer awaiting their trial prayed for the days to lengthen, as night brought their fears nearer. The fear of mockery, punishment, humiliation, and the mystery of death would slip closer as the sky blackened, leaving them along with their disquieting thoughts in the silence of darkness. Erik had been both thief and murderer, but never had he truly cherished his days as a free man. He felt quite certain that he would not be resigned to dwelling in the gallows for his crimes; he was, proudly, smarter than the average criminal.  
At his most perversely narcissistic, he never even considered himself a criminal. A dangerous man certainly, but not something so common, so unimportant and unimpressive as a run of the mill lawbreaker.

A criminal was no more than a wayward human being. He was barely human, and that gave him a sense of pride.

It also made him lonely and bitter, but he had never truly been able to admit that to himself. To admit to loneliness was to admit to weakness. He wanted to love the life he had chosen. He wanted to love the darkness, the seclusion, the fearful obedience he incited, and the music he made for ears none other then his own.

He wanted nothing more than to be content with what he had created.

Yet, whenever he allowed his eyes wander across his cramped subterranean kingdom, he felt nothing. Nothing at all.

On some days he felt like a public hanging would breathe life into his cold, untouched body, even if it were he who was being hanged. At least he could breathe in some fresh air and wish the world a fond 'fuck you' before falling to his death before their bloodthirsty, vengeance-hungry eyes.

Now, however, he felt as though his life was unrecognizable. He did not know the man who sat silently by the window, watching the shadows of the trees play across the night-darkened grass.

He wished for the hours to turn backwards so that he could live one more day. He was not dying come the morning; at least not in a physical sense. Metaphorically, however, he had eaten his last meal and slept his last night at peace. Well, somewhat at peace.  
Tomorrow that light at the end of his proverbial tunnel was going to fade out completely, and he would be rummaging through the darkness like blind man, tripping, falling, reaching, and clutching at nothing.

He hated to be ruled by the decisions of others.

He swore never to be governed by the actions of another.

Unfortunately, his personal creed was about to be made useless. He was falling apart with the knowledge that Christine would be going home tomorrow. Well, perhaps 'home' was not the word he would use to describe the building to which she would be returning. She was going back to a house that held a silent staff, fine linens, feminine furnishings, and a boy who was almost too perfect to live. A boy ho he had let live, actually.

No, that was not her home. It was where she placed her body and her possessions, but her home was with him. He had known it from the moment he saw her, he had known it even before he realized he knew.

Yet home or no home, emotional connotations aside, she was leaving him. Tomorrow.

In just a few hours, actually.

He could most certainly stop her if he tried, but he wouldn't. He could plead his case convincingly enough, pulling at her heart with pleas for compassion, but he would not do that either. He could follow her, blackmail her, threaten her…

But no, he would not make her hate him again. That would be too much to bear, and he had bared more than was necessary, he was sure.

Like a murderer pleading for a few hours more to reflect upon his or her life on the great mysterious planet, he wanted just a few hours more to hold the woman who accepted him in his arms and feel complete.

A man with a wife and a home was complete. A man with money was even better. He had wealth, but he had no woman, and therefore he had no home. Now he possessed all three, and the knowledge that they could not be his forever filled him with a sense of heart-breaking dread and pitiful sadness. He had no desire to rage at her for leaving him; he really had no energy for anger. He simply wanted to sink into the floor and perish. He had everything he wanted, and it was ripped away from him so soon.

He supposed that this was the point in the story where he begged for God to help him, to explain why he was so cursed. Erik did not believe in God, so that dramatic vision was not about to come true.

It was 3:30 in the morning. He hadn't slept at all.

He wanted her to go, to make it final that these two weeks had come to a conclusion and their bargain had been fulfilled. He wanted the closing of the door to symbolize the end of he and Christine, just as the oars weaving through the icy waters of his lair said 'goodbye' more eloquently than words ever could.

And he wanted her to stay, to keep the peace within his soul alive. He wanted her to tell him that she loved him, and he wanted that love to speak for itself in her staunch refusal to leave his side. He wanted to write music again, to hear her powerful, perfect voice saying the words that he always felt but never say in words.

He had absolutely no idea what he wanted really; his mind was assaulted with justifications, logical musings, emotional longing, and desperation. He needed her, yet love was poisonous.

It ravaged the soul while giving it life.

Logically, he would certainly be better off avoiding poisons.

Yet the poison had an antidote, and that was the calming voice and affectionate hand of the lover. Despite the dangers of love, the one returning the volatile emotion often tamed the beast within the other.

A poetic musing. A good one too, if he did say so himself. It was sufficiently lyrical and expressive, and also very true.

He knew he should learn to let go.

But he had never truly let go before, and he certainly couldn't do it now. It was a brave and noble thing to give one the freedom to be happy at a personal cost. Yet he was neither brave nor noble now.

Would she be happier with her husband?

_No._

Would she be happier with him?

_Yes._

He knew what he was capable of, but then again, so did she. She did not seem to mind his past, nor the man that he was trying hard to become. Yet, perhaps she was blinded by her foray into passion, and was thus willing to lay aside her convictions and better judgment for the thrill of experiencing what was dangerous and unknown. Did not all humans hunger for a taste of the forbidden? Does the desire to embark on a mission of dark self-discovery not excite even the most docile of minds?

He gasped in horror at the dark, yet plausible cynicism of his thoughts.

Was this real? Or was this simply the acting out of a fantasy? He played the black knight, a traitor to his kingdom and a sneering, arrogant adversary to every man he encountered.

She played the well-to-do heroine, living life in such a way as to appear always charming and inoffensive. Obedient, meek, good-willed, and kind-hearted. He, in turn, preyed upon her innocence and lured her into a world of forbidden adventure. She loved absolutely every minute of it; he knew this with little doubt in his mind. He made her feel sinfully dangerous, a woman with secret longings and a secret life.  
He stole her away from a life of uneventful honesty and chastity. Every child loves their honest, faithful, devout, and sexless mother. Yet, in the end that woman is forgotten. Her unyielding obedience to her husband, family, society, and religion no longer matter when her great grandchildren forget that she ever lived.

People remember the women who do something out of the ordinary, who defy the rules that bind them to their homes and surnames, who deal with matters thought to be far beyond the meager strength of a maidenly lady.

He had brought out the beast who had been living in Christine all of her life, and she was now that extraordinary woman who would be judged more out of envy than out of disdain, even if those who judged never admitted their grievance.

Was she using him to release something inside of her?

Did he even mind?

Was he so desperate for the touch of her hand an the feel of her lips upon his that he would excuse her morbid curiosity and accept it as true, undisguised, raw, naked love?

Was he simply arguing against himself in circles to avoid dealing with the pain of her imminent departure?

Had he truly grown so much in two weeks as to realize the motivation behind his thoughts? His newfound wisdom was absolutely terrifying.

* * *

Everything felt the same. The sheets were warm and soft, the mattress deep and sunken, and the pillows smooth against her cheek. The dark colours remained the same, as did the heavy velvet coverlet that enveloped her body so warmly. 

Today was different.

Dreadfully so.

They had come so far, and now the journey seemed to end without due climax. They had climbed mountains, battled blizzards and torrential rains, and swam across violent oceans to reach this precipice, this untouched island of contentment. For all of the blood and tears shed, they had finally reached a point where they could forget the past and dig their heels into the forgiving earth of the present.

It was wrong, it was wrong in ways that she could not even begin to imagine. Yet, in those beautiful moments where they would speak freely and touch one another intimately, all of the shame and terror seemed to fade away. Sometimes she could have sworn that it never truly existed at all.

The dawning of a new day ripped away the rose-coloured glow that had masked the sordidness of their affair with sublime happiness and satisfaction. They were not normal lovers, and they were not living out their romance with the blessing of those who loved her.

They were liars, manipulators, and irresponsible people. She, as a newly anointed lady of refinement, would be held solely responsible for sinning against the social order that bound her.

Christine wrapped the sheet tightly around her body and walked to the dark, still man staring out the window.

He made no move to acknowledge her even when she snaked one arm around his waist and buried her face between his shoulder blades.

He sighed deeply.

She was with him, but the temporary nature of their embrace made him wish he could push her away now and get on with what needed to be done in time. Perhaps the earlier he distanced himself from her; the easier it would be to know what she wasn't coming back.

He didn't push her away. He couldn't. He hadn't the strength nor the will to do it. He felt weak, as weak as he had the night that she left him to dwell upon his own cruelties as she rowed ashore with the man who promised her a small modicum of happiness.

At least then he saw her flight as a reasonable one. Now he could see no real reason for her to return to a dissatisfying, painfully average life after showing her the power of what one may call 'unconventional love.' He felt abandoned. Abandoned because fate did not see fit to grant him the willing presence of another in his lonely existence.

He hated pitying himself, but sometimes pity was easiest to stomach.

"When are you leaving?" His tone was clipped as he fought down the dreaded lump in his throat that had been strangling him for hours.

"Don't." Her hand ran lightly up his back, her fingers smoothing the material of his shirt.

"Don't what?"

"Don't speak as though you are seeing me off to the market."

He would have much preferred her to be simply heading to the market.

"How else should I speak? There is not much to say."

"I know it hurts," she moved to face him, cupping his face in her hands tenderly, "but it will only hurt more if we stay formal and silent. You are making it feel like…you are making it feel as though nothing happened."

"Hmm."

"So much has happened, Erik."

"I concur," he laughed shortly.

"Too much has happened to just move along so silently, it isn't right…"

"No, noting we do is right, Christine. It isn't now, nor shall it ever be…"

"But…"

"I, however, care nothing for what is right or wrong, nor will I ever…"

"Yes, but…" She stammered slightly, her hands coming down to wrap the blanket more tightly around her body.

"Therefore, in my twisted view of what is right and what is wrong, it seems right for you to stay and continue to enjoy this hedonistic affair that brings you such satisfaction…"

She gasped, "You make it sound so…so…so lewd!"

He smirked slyly, "Indeed. If you leave, you will be returning to something you do not love out of duty and propriety, which is utterly, mind-numbingly, inconceivably unwise, and you will suffer for it. But I wont stop you."

She paused for a moment before stalking over to the bed and flopping onto the side of it. The room seemed to be growing smaller and smaller with each passing moment. He was right, yet he was wrong. To fulfill her position as a wife was necessary, therefore it was good. Perhaps it was not good for her, or Erik for that matter, but it was good for the world as a whole. Wasn't it? It was good for her soul, as the powers that be always take pity on the soul that suffers for the greater good! Don't they?

Who was she most trying to fool? She recited what was right and good in her mind over and over, but it all seemed meaningless.

Here and now was far from perfect, but meaningless it was not.

"Erik," she began, "I think that we are all meant to suffer."

"You tell me nothing new."

"Please, see me home?"

He shuddered at her use of the word 'home.'

* * *

The ride to the de Changy estate was rode in absolute silence. There were thousands of words, questions, and pleas floating about in the air, but neither he nor she had the power to voice them. 

The day seemed almost too perfect for the dark occasion that lie ahead, a cruel juxtaposition imposed upon them by nature.

Sofia was in a bright mood when Erik asked her if she would be so kind as to lend him her horse, carriage, and driver for the afternoon. She obliged him willingly, her eyebrows knitting together in concern only briefly at the black look upon his normally handsome, partially shielded face.

She feared his scowl would deepen and become permanent if she dared object to lending him her carriage. Today was a dark day for him, and she suspected his young paramour was setting out for lands unknown without him in toe. She always thought that affairs, especially those obviously meant to be kept secret and hidden, would end up being more taxing than satisfying.

Still, she asked no questions. She would do so later, preferably with a bottle of brandy in hand. A hard, strong beverage always loosened the tongue and took some weight off the heart.

Now Erik and Christine rode together, the wind gently rustling the leaves and battering against the carriage as it bumped and shook over the uneven dirt path.

The horse's hooves clopped against the ground, the sound seeming like the ticking of the hands of the clock before a death sentence.

He wanted death, yet he could not bring himself to release his sweaty, straining, failing grasp on life.

"If we were different people, we would not have to do this." Christine muttered silently to herself. He heard her.

"Right you are." He smoothed back his wig and kept his eyes expressionless and cool.

"I wish…"

"Yes?" He turned to her and watched as she nervously wetted her lips and fidgeted with the material of her dress.

"Nevermind."

The rest of the ride was, as the old adage goes, silent as the grave.

* * *

The night came quickly, and Christine had not yet moved from her position on the sofa. Not once. 

Her mind reeled with what had occurred that day, or perhaps, what had not occurred. Her soul, if there truly was such a thing, and she had great hope that there was, seemed to empty and fall like a dead weight to the pit of her stomach. It was shriveled, blackened, and as decayed as the flesh of the dead.

During a time long ago, in fact, it had begun to seem as though she had lived two lives, she had heard her ominous Phantom mourn the death of the music of the night. She had felt her heart grow cold as she too mourned the loss of her greatest inspiration. Yet now she knew that she not only lost a part of her music, she now lost the man who had become her lover. And she did not fight to get him back.

In her last life, she had been a girl with magnificent dreams and glamorous ambitions. She had her opera house, her friends, and her dark, mysterious tutor teaching her how to take her voice to new heights. She dreamed that her voice might make her a star, and she would forever make her father proud of what she worked so hard to become with the help of the spirit that he sent to her.

Then the voice turned into a man, a man who changed her life with one song. All he had to do was sing to her, and who she was - the woman she thought she was becoming - had been obliterated. He made her long for his touch, his voice, and his presence. All that she thought she knew, and all that she thought she was, was ripped away from her in mere moments of rapture. Yet, having her illusions shattered did not hurt, in fact, it excited her.

She was re-born as a woman with a new fate, and when that fate revealed to her a disfigured, broken man living a one-sided affair who was only being to reach her through song, she went from being heart-broken, to furious, to hopelessly intrigued. His lies were unforgivable, but his touch was all she wanted.

And so began her first life, the one wrought with pain and confusion. The one that ended with the possible death of a loved one on her conscience, and a void of disillusioned bitterness in her heart. She, the girl who believed in angels, became disenchanted and faithless.

That was, of course, until she agreed to make amends with the man who she hated and loved at the same time. She used to think such a thing absolutely impossible, but she was wrong. So very, very wrong.

Then began her second life, the one where she, a woman of conscious desire, decided to turn her angel into a flesh and blood man.

She admitted that she wanted him in a way that she would never want another man. She admitted that her marriage vows and motherly guidance from Madame Giry would not be able to keep her away from the man who beckoned to her in the darkness. She succumbed to him, and in doing so found a freedom she never thought possible.

The freedom to choose a lover. Not a mate, husband, companion, or friend, but a lover. How many other women were given the gift of a man to awaken their bodies to the heights of ecstasy? What women had the ability to seek out a man who enthralled them with his danger and enticed them with the forbidden?

Yes, he was daunting.

But he was also her deepest, purest desire.

And he was gone.

She had gotten out of the carriage, and the driver had helped her lift her bags and carry them into the house while Erik waited out of sight. She wanted to throw herself into his arms and ask him to forgive her for what had to be done, but she couldn't. She wanted him to hold her, grasp her, and say anything to make her return, but he couldn't do that either. They were both dead inside. A dark love that had been awakened was being denied, and the colour seemed to drain from their faces as they lost apart of themselves upon parting.

He simply bid her adieu, and off he went. Gone. As though he had never been there at all. As though they hadn't spent night after night crying out obscene exclamations in each other's arms. As though they hadn't fought, cried, laughed, and seethed together. As though they hadn't made the most beautiful music the world had ever heard with the inspiration of one another.

She was glad Raoul was not home. She did not know when he was to arrive, but she was glad that he was not there right now, singing her praises and regaling her with stories of his travels. If she saw another human being smile at her should she would surely strike the silly, frivolous expression right off their face!

Tiring of her own self-pity, she decided to go to bed and see if she felt human once again come the morning.

She stood up and walked into the great front hallway. It was dark and shadowy, almost eerie in its silence. She could hear her light steps echo as she made her way to the staircase, her feet seeming to barely touch the floor as she drifted like a ghost about the room. She was dead, in a metaphorical sense at least.

It sounded like there were footsteps behind her, trailing her softly. She didn't care about the fanciful tricks that her mind wished to play on her. Caring took energy, and she was simply a flesh and bone creature moving through her house like the undead. Never feeling, never caring, simply living because there was naught much else to do.

An ominous creak made her stop. Her face whitened slightly, and she stopped to turn and look around. Nothing.

She continued towards the staircase.

_Creak_

"Impossible…" She muttered. She glanced around again; there was nothing there.

_Creak_

The house was quite new, she had no idea why it would creak so, and felt her heart begin to hammer rapidly in her chest.

_Creak_

The noise was not getting closer, but it was not getting further either.

Her mind was clearly punishing her for a multitude of reasons that she hadn't the ability to think on at the moment. Sometimes the mind, just like the body, needed to rest after hours of strenuous exercise. She stepped forward once more.

Her breath was knocked from her body as a leather-clad hand closed over her mouth, and a large, black-covered body forced her to the floor.

She hit him once, twice, three times. She tried frantically to scream, but no sound aside from strangled squeaks escaped the cracks between his thick, long fingers. Her fist made contact with his jaw, which created a horrifically satisfying crack.

She couldn't see his face, it was covered in black.

Strong hands grasped her wrists and forced them to the floor on either side of her head as his body moved rapidly to pin her heavily to the floor, which allowed her to bellow and rage freely as she struggled to dislodge him with her legs.

"Stop struggling!" A velvety, familiar voice barked out.

"What?" She stammered and gasped.

"We both know you love a man who's a little on the rough side."

She felt her lips being crushed against his as he raised his knee to press against her centre, effectively parting her legs as he did so.

She was overcome with a relief so great that she could have wept, and a rage so astute that she wanted to tear his heart from his chest.

Not to mention an arousal so fierce that she felt that would explode any moment.

She kissed him back with as much ferocity as she could muster, and the pressure he applied to her mouth was near painful.

Time felt like it was moving too fast, and Christine felt as though none of this could be real. Perhaps she was just having a vivid, perverse fantasy that was so lucid that she could swear it was happening.

The somewhat familiar sound of ripping fabric tore through her reverie. He had removed his gloves and impressively torn her skirts in half. He never held back, her Erik. It was one of things she found that she loved most about him. It was dangerously refreshing.

Her lips assaulted every part of him that they could reach, his lips, his face, his neck, his chest. She ran her hands through his hair and locked her legs around him tightly, holding him to her fiercely.

There were sounds coming from them that seemed more like the guttural grunts and groans of animals in heat. She moaned, gasped, and sighed while he grunted and exhaled harshly. Every breath that he drew in was ragged.

She pulled herself out from under him, wanting to move towards the stairs, to make it to her bedroom before christening the floor in their heated passion. He pulled her back roughly, his hands closing around her upper arms and dragging her across the wood before pinning her arms once more.

His hand was rough as it ran across her face and neck, before finally pressing harshly against her clothed breast. She arched into him, groaning as he pressed her back into the floor with a violent thrust of his hips.

One of her few remaining pairs of drawers were torn in half as she struggled to unbutton his pants and remove his straining cock.

He pulled her thighs apart harshly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as spread her legs as wide as her dexterity would allow.

Within seconds he was inside of her. They were nearly screaming with fulfillment as they moved together. He was not being tender or gentle, but vicious and animalistic. Her back scraped against the floor as he moved against her, bruising her inner thighs and pushing the air from her lungs with each savage thrust.

She was lost to the sensation of being overcome, and her legs locked tightly around his waist as she pushed against him, her lower body rocking against his as rapidly as possible.

The cried out and groaned, their sounds not even recognizable as those that human beings make.

She bit down on the fingers that he impulsively penetrated her mouth with, gently nibbling the tips and tasting the salty tinge of his sweat on her tongue.

His lips, teeth, and tongue ravaged her neck and chest, marking and reddening the pale skin as he continued to move within her harshly.

Christine felt strands of soft, brown hair come off as she dragged her moist hand from his head to feel the tensing and releasing of the muscles in his back. His skin was so hot and damp against his shirt, it nearly burned her.

She screamed out unintelligible things. She called him an angel, Erik, a ghost, and a cowardly bastard waiting to pounce upon her in the dark all in rapid-fire succession. She screamed that he was a beast, a creature, and a gloriously lecherous madman as she begged him to bury himself deeper and move faster and harder.

With a hoarse, ragged cry he plunged a hand between them and felt the swollen nub at the apex of her thighs. She screamed out and came apart in his arms almost immediately, her hips thrusting against his fingers and his body desperately as her eyes filled with water that had noting to do with sadness or pain.

Within moments he followed her, spilling into her and trembling violently.

They laid there, him still inside of her, breathing harshly.

"You know that I couldn't let you go without saying good bye." Erik grunted out.

"No, and I don't suppose that subtly is your strong suit."

She smiled.


	25. Where Do We Go Now, Oh Wayward Lover?

**Chapter 25: Where Do We Go Now, Oh Wayward Lover?**

**A/N: Wow, it feels like it's been forever since my last update. In fact, it really has, and I am very sorry about that. I've been busy. Here is the newest installment, I can only hope you'll enjoy it and that you haven't given up on me and my sporadic, unreliable writing schedule. Thanks to all who have reviewed, I appreciate it. Please R n'R. **

**Oh, and allow me to whore out my LJ. It's in my profile, check it out and friend me. There are rants, pictures, phan-fic chronicling, and cool quizzes (not to mention really pretty colours that will drive your eyes to the greatest heights of ecstasy).**

**On with the show…**

* * *

"I suspect your night was everything you dreamed it would be and more?"

"It was spectacular."

"Your idea of spectacle is repugnant." Raoul looked up from the chaise that he had been lounging on stiffly for the past three hours. He had tried to drift off to sleep, but each time he felt consciousness slink away his mind would wander to more pressing matters, such as his stifling shirtsleeves and heavy boots. It was never advisable to slumber whilst fully dressed, as the constriction often rendered relaxation rather impossible, which completely obliterated the purpose of sleep.

Why was it so impossible to rest when one's mind was so full? And full of what exactly? Raoul's brain felt as though it were swelling with each passing moment. Every time a hand moved on the old wooden clock in the hallway, his mind swam with distressing thoughts and images. He was a prisoner in a foreign country, held in place by the chains of familial obligation and the weight of blackmail and threats. He felt ill at ease in his own skin, as though his body was being compelled to break free from his bindings even as he reassured himself that all was well in his mother country with his wife.

He was trapped, he was frightened, he was angry, and he was being eaten alive from the inside out by a dull warning. Something in his life was amiss, and like a premonition constantly interrupted by moments of wakefulness, his contemplation of the unknown was hindered by his naïve rationale.

Philippe removed his cravat and waistcoat leisurely, his movements light. He was a man satisfied. Raoul envied his gracefulness and cheery demeanor, but never could be lower himself to entering a smoke-filled, bawdy whorehouse filled with loose women with loose morals and even looser nether regions. It was so…distasteful. He could almost smell the sweat and perfume in the air, the jasmine and lavender mingling with perspiration, alcohol, and cigar smoke.

"I suggest you sleep, oh Cardinal de Changy, your public shall want to be greeted by your glittering smile and boyish disposition come the morning." Philippe sat upon the opposite sofa and sighed deeply. It was an ugly room, but somehow it felt rather cozy. When under the influence of complete and utter satiation, even the gaudiest of chambers could appear quaint and endearing.

"Mock me all you wish, but know that come tomorrow morning, it will not be me who is itching in unmentionable places."

Philippe laughed gruffly and snorted.

"Kindly refrain from mentioning my unmentionables, such is not the talk of fine Frenchmen."

"There is only one fine Frenchman in the room." Raoul knew such a statement held no merit. A fine Frenchman of good repute and standing would not find himself staring at the blade of a knife in the hand of a spry henchman.

He felt like a fine man when suspended on the end of a noose - for at that point, victorious or not - he was a hero. Now he was simply a dupe, and a stupid one at that.

Philippe started, "I am the fine Frenchman who spent the evening with one very fine Englishwoman who assured me that my culture breeds incredible lovers." Philippe ran his hands through his hair, it felt moist from sweat and most certainly smelled of a myriad of things, some more unspeakable than others.

"She lies through her crooked teeth."

"Her teeth were perfectly straight, and very white."

"You are going blind in your old age," Raoul muttered.

"Better to die a blind man with a light heart than a seeing man with a black one," Philippe responded in a way that sounded rather wistful.

Raoul paused for a moment. Was his heart going to blacken? He had stared darkness in the face, had seen it in all of its hideousness, and he emerged from it a sane and happy man. Why was he beginning to feel so old? His face and body were young, his voice was light and pleasant, yet his mind was worn and graying with doubt and worry.

"Perhaps," Raoul began, "it is best to die with a full heart and a clean soul, regardless of what the eyes have or have not seen."

Now it was Philippe's turn to pause.

"Wise words from a young man. Yet I will tell you that it is ignorance that destroys the soul, not a brief tryst with a lady who possesses a silly name." Philippe felt his eyelids grow droopy as his body molded to the warm embrace of the tattered cushions.

"What makes me so ignorant?"

Silence.

"Philippe?"

Silence.

"Philippe!"

"Hmph." The sound of unintelligible utterances made in sleep.

Raoul played with the words in his mind. Ignorance is the death of the soul, is it? To what was he so ignorant?

"Philippe?"

Only the soft footsteps outside the window and the wind against the smeared glass could be heard.

"Raoul?" A muffled voice emerged from the comatose figure on the sofa.

"Yes?"

"I know that you are just dying to know…"

"Yes?"

"I swore I would not tell you, for fear of inciting jealously…"

"Speak, man!"

"It is you who begged to know, not I who begged to tell."

"I hold nothing against you." His heart began hammering wildly in his chest. An answer to his queries was coming. It did not even need to be the right answer, or truly an answer at all. All he needed to hear was some confirmation, some shred of acknowledgment that he was ignoring something of importance in his life. Perhaps to have even the barest hint of light shed upon the dull ache in his stomach would bring to the forefront of his mind the cause of the uneasiness that was plaguing him.

He was called ignorant, and he was not angry or defensive. He felt ignorant, as though his eyes were not seeing all there was to see, for his mind was so troubled for reasons he could not fathom.

"Raoul, her name was Satin Wildflower, and she had gorgeous breasts." Philippe's voiced faded into a massive snore, accompanied by a slight, very ungentlemanly giggle.

Raoul was angered, yet relieved. Perhaps he had seen an ominous hint where there was none.

"Perhaps", he thought, "perhaps I have been too long away from home after too many trying ordeals."

With that, he slept.

* * *

For the first time in her life, Christine felt young. She was young in body, but never had she felt that beautiful carelessness of spirit that young girls possessed so brilliantly. Her mind was always plagued with wistful longings for things that could never be, and her detachment from the enchanted world of the living kept her a shy, reclusive woman with great dreams and great talent, but little actual spirit.

She grew up wanting her father and the promised intangible angel of legend. She wanted someone to make her into what she was supposed to be. Like a lost lamb weeping for its shepherd, she never allowed herself time to find her own way. She was pulled in every which way by her ideals, and never could she stop and look at the glamour of the stage and see the frivolous fun and beauty for what it was. She always looked for signs, for confirmation of her spiritual longings, for reminders of her mentors.

Now that she had lost some of her faith, she was more alive inside than ever before. A world with no ghosts, spirits, or angels was actually not the cold, empty place she once feared it would be. Everything was real, and although it certainly was not idyllic or perfect, it was freeing.

This morning she had giggled and laughed as she shuffled her lover outside the backdoor like a blissfully enamored young woman who was entertaining a besotted young man in her bedroom. It was sinfully scandalous, and her righteousness no longer crept upon her. She was troubled by her hedonism, yet she embraced it.

She loved him. She loved the danger about him, the wild and unpredictable side of a man who was alternately hard and soft. Like a portrait, she could look at him and see something new and different with every critical and loving glance. She could see his sadness, his pain, his suffering. Or if she so chose, she could look at him and see strength, passion, and dedication.

It was wrong to love him, but she never pushed him away. It felt wrong to be with him, and it felt wrong to be without him.

A light rap at the door startled her. She had been sitting on the same sofa that she sat on the night before in morbid contemplation. Now she sat there in the company of her delicious memories.

Who could be visiting her? Surely it was not Erik, for he preferred to pry open locks and slink through windows like a demonic serpent who longed to wrap about her body until she could not breathe from the mixture of fear and exhilaration.

It was not Raoul, for he would not knock to gain entry to his own house.

"Madame?" Victor, her tired and portly butler, cleared his throat before addressing her.

"Yes, Victor?" She turned to him and smiled widely. She had hoped the staff would warm up to her, but their indifference remained.

"A Mademoiselle Giry here to see you."

Meg.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Her last conversation with Meg had begun and ended badly. She resented her condemnation, yet a part of her understood from where it stemmed. Still, she dreaded having to defend the indefensible affair that she was having, and that as far as she knew, was continuing.

She stood and thanked the butler quietly. Smoothing her hair and dress nervously, she peeked outside of the room to see Meg coming towards her. Meg's arms were crossed sternly in front of her chest and her lips were pursed in such a way that made her look more like her mother than she ever had before. Even her uncharacteristic stiff gait spoke of the strong and matronly ballet mistress.

They smiled briefly at each other before Christine stiffly motioned for Meg to follow her into the sitting room.

The feeling of discomfort was stifling. Two women who had shared everything with one another throughout their childhood felt like mere strangers on opposite sides of the war of ideals. Morally divided, they had little to say to one another in a manner that was not cold or condescending. It was heartbreaking.

"Tea, Meg?" They both sat awkwardly, smoothing their clothes and shifting their eyes.

"Yes. You have a lovely house." Meg looked about her and let out a sigh, it was a beautiful home. The colours were soft and feminine, the furnishings crisp and new. It even smelled new, a scent that was most unfamiliar to her, as she had always lived in older buildings that smelled of the past. She was most impressed with the cream-coloured sofa; it was so pristine that she worried her skin would somehow mar its beauty.

"Yes, it is all right." Christine answered indifferently. Her house felt like a museum, it was beautiful and prestigious, but not at all personally comforting.

"Just all right you say? I would say it's pretty damn gorgeous, a lot better than a flooded stone dungeon at least."

"He does not live in a dungeon!" Christine snapped.

"He did. If I recall, he lived there for most of his life. Liked it too, decorated it like it was the most affluent palace he had ever set eyes on." Meg felt her heart grow cold as she looked at the spoiled princess before her. The porcelain doll in front of her looked at her with those huge chocolate brown eyes, so filled with innocent indignation. She was given so much, and she cared nothing for it.

"You cannot stay angry at me forever, Meg."

"I'm not angry with you." Meg answered quietly.

"Oh?" Christine raised one eyebrow inquisitively.

"I am hurt by you, by the person you have become."

"What have I become? You sit there and you judge, and judge, and judge! I can see so much hate in you, and I cannot apologize for it, nor can I change it. I'm almost growing tired of wanting to. Besides, you will not let me…"

"I do not need to hear it, Christine!"

"You will not let me explain things to you!"

"You have nothing to explain, you have become one of those women." Meg looked about her nervously, checking to see if any staff had heard her voice rise.

"Would you please speak civilly? The butler does not need to hear this." Christine's voice had grown dry. She was at the terrible stage between tears and rage. Her body burned with indignation, yet her heart ached for the stranger who used to be her most loved and trusted confidant. "Now please tell me what kind of _woman _I have become."

"You know what kind." Meg said coldly.

"I do not."

"You are naïve Christine, not stupid. You know."

"Please just say it, Meg," her voice shook with anger, "please say what it is that you have come here to stay."

"Here." Meg reached into her cloak – which she had not bothered to remove – and held out a small envelope.

"You wrote me a letter?" Christine asked quizzically before grasping the paper in her trembling hand.

"No," Meg laughed dryly, "it's from that man who you went to church with one day and promised to love and cherish forever before God, me, and his family. Do you remember him?"

She tore the letter open violently.

Raoul.

Did he know? Had word somehow gotten to his blissfully ignorant ears as a means to punish her for a truth she was not yet willing to face in its entirety? Her eyes scanned the page rapidly.

He didn't know. She closed her eyes and thanked God over and over again.

_He doesn't know, he doesn't know, he doesn't know…_

She could have kissed Meg for bringing this most wonderful news. He was delayed, he was angry, and he was disgruntled, but he did not know.

"He doesn't know Meg…" Her voice trembled with relief.

"Indeed, that would be a shame. It would certainly spoil your scandalous affair, would it not?"

Christine was torn. She wanted to scream at her to get out. It would have been warranted, even expected. She was being mercilessly insulted in her own home by the one woman she trusted and loved the most.

Yet, she wanted to tell Meg. She wanted no more than for Meg to understand. A lonely person wants nothing more than to hear that someone understands her and is willing to sympathize with her when her heart is bruised, broken, soaring, or confused. It is natural to want the support and approval of the few people who take a shattered orphan into their care. It is natural to weep tragically when that loving embrace is forever withheld.

"Meg, I will give you two choices. Please think on them carefully."

"Oh?"

"You can leave now. Take your judgment and sneers with you and never return, for you will not be welcome back."

"How charming…"

"Let me finish." Christine raised her hand impatiently. "Or you can listen to me, you do not have to understand or even approve. In fact, if you wish to hate me after you hear my story, I will accept it. I will not like it, but I promise, I shall accept it."

Meg paused. To leave was too final. She could - in good conscience - condemn her friend for falling into the trap of so many women before her. Women who wanted adventure and drama often ended up disenchanted and alone, living forever in regret of their carelessness and stupidity.

Yet to walk out on Christine was to leave a part of her soul broken and withered. A cry for compassion was a cry for compassion, no matter how pitiful. Was that not what her mother had said to her, albeit silently? To take in an orphan openly and without objection was to embrace a fundamental principle that it was best to give whenever possible, for those who had nothing would always have nothing should the world turn a blind eye to their plight.

Goodness was very basic, really. It was only too tragic that the one who takes the goodness often turns their back on he or she who gives it freely. Looking at Christine, and seeing her deep, unyielding support of her wayward, criminal lover proved the old adage that no good deed goes unpunished to be true.

Meg's mother had given both Christine and her Phantom a home in their darkest hours. She had fed, clothed, and protected them at the cost of her own comfort - and even safety. When light had fled the lives of those two forgotten souls, her mother had carried them on her back, never asking for anything in return. How had the two ungrateful cubs repaid her? By becoming the worst of hedonists, destroying the world around them so that their selfish desires may be fulfilled, all well staring at the aghast world with watery, innocent eyes, crying out that they have suffered too much to be bound by the laws of humanity and decency.

That creature destroyed lives, and now Christine spat upon the graves of those lost to his rage by taking that animal into her body and heart and calling him a man. A man worthy of love, no less.

Meg hated Christine more than ever before, but she could still not find the strength – or the coldness – to walk from her house forever.

"Speak, Christine," Meg began, her lips pursed together tightly, making her usually pleasant and childish face appear hardened and forbidding, "I will hear you out, if only for a few moments."

Christine cleared her throat silently; it felt too full to allow her to speak. Her skin still burned with both anger and relief. She hated being spoken to as though she were a recalcitrant child guilty of wandering the Populaire corridors after midnight by the one woman who used to accompany her on such journeys, but she would endure the judgment for as long as it took to see that tiny bit of understanding creep into her friend's visage.

"Meg," she began, "I know not what to say to you about…him."

"There is nothing you can say that I do not already know."

Christine sniffed loudly, Meg raised one eyebrow quizzically.

"There is much you do not know, actually…"

"Then I have no need to hear it!" Meg snapped. Christine had never realized how much she could sound like her mother when angered. Her angelic blonde companion would have looked perfectly natural rapping a cane against a wooden stage prop and demanding attention with charismatic authority.

Christine ignored her.

"Well, you chose to stay, so you'll hear it anyways." She knew she sounded petulant, but her patience was wearing thin, and she felt like in these past few months her reserves for said characteristic were growing dry.

"Then cease pausing and say what is that you think I need to hear, please." Meg folded her arms across her chest defiantly. She looked formidable, like a fortress unable to be taken by any amount of oratorical pillaging. Christine had poetic, romantic battering rams in abundance, but steel walls rarely give way.

"I have said it before, but I shall say it again, to reassure if you nothing else. I love him. I do. I have fallen in love with the monster who destroyed our home and nearly murdered my husband. I have made love to the man who kidnapped and threatened me. I love the man who took for granted the graciousness of your mother, and turned his back upon her with little care for her sacrifice."

Meg sat silently, it was never wise to interrupt one in the midst of a great confession, and it would thwart their thoughts, which were as genuine as thoughts could be.

"He is frightening to behold, and even more frightening in his anger. He has an unpredictable nature, and a fierce disposition. He is broken and damaged, and thus he acts out like a wounded and threatened animal. All of these things that you think of him are true, he is everything terrible that you can imagine."

Meg nodded her head stoically.

"You wonder how I can love him? I do not know. I see in him a great beauty that obliterates whatever it is that has made his face what it is. He is a brilliant artist, one whose heart is so full of inspiration that he can set one's soul aflame with admiration. He is a true talent, and for so long he has never been able to use it. I see in him a man who could not live with himself because he had no voice, no means of giving to the world the gift which he was born to share. I see in him a lonely creature who so needs kind words and the acceptance of just one person. I see in him a man who is damaged, angry, confused, and flawed. I see in him a soul that understands my own, and when we allow our passions and desires to come together, something indescribable happens. He is my dark, morbid counterpart. He is the rough, untamed part of my mind. His music is my voice, and my voice is his savior.

Christine's voice had risen higher than she had intended, and even higher than she was conscience of. She sounded introspective, yet strong. Confused, yet enlightened. Lost, yet dedicated to swimming against the current towards her destination.

"We are a terrible combination, and a beautiful one. We have the power to destroy, and the power to give life. We hurt people when we are together, but we destroy them when we are apart."

Christine stalked forward and grasped Meg's limp hands in her own, clasping them with urgent roughness and wringing them frantically. Her eyes were wide and pleading, her grip strong and unyielding.

"Do you not see, Meg? It is beyond understanding. It just…is. It exists because it must, I have given up fighting, and I am a happy loser."

"Can anything be so powerful, Christine?" Meg gently traced Christine's whitened fingers with her own while searching her eyes desperately. There was no longer skepticism or coldness in her tone. That had been replaced with bewilderment and wonder. Her heart was beating so frantically, the blood pulsing through her veins seemed to burn her flesh.

"Yes Meg, and it makes me feel as though I am mad." Christine felt her lips turn upward into a smile, the smile of one whose heart has suddenly been freed from beneath a crushing weight.

"You are mad, you must know that." Meg gently touched her friend's cheek.

"Madness is far better than sanity." Christine's voice shook with relieved laughter as she spoke.

* * *

The night had come quickly. It seemed that only mere moments ago he had been shuffled out of the backdoor of Christine's house. In that moment he had regained an aspect of youth that he had never experienced. The thrill of being in a place that he should not be for fear of compromising a lady's reputation. He had always imagined that only naïve and foolish young boys played the part of Romeo, running rapidly away from the homes of their lovers with little regard of the severity of their breach of propriety.

He was compromising a lady's reputation, but he did not care. He did have to hide what was simmering between them, but that did not bother him. He was enraptured, and his ecstasies rendered his logic superfluous. His joy was too great to feel bitter about being the secret lover. It would come to haunt him soon, but now that he had taken her regardless of the rules of their final separation and knew that she would easily welcome him back into her arms at a moments notice. It filled his old heart with childish glee.

His home seemed warm and complete, even though Christine was absent. Sofia sat across from him at his lovely, ornate table, sipping red wine casually. She had come to him wanting a quiet, casual drink as friendly acquaintances. He had agreed, as now was a time for great celebration. His sad, pitiful existence had one victorious event of which to speak, and it deserved to be toasted voraciously.

He went to the woman who had left him a second time, and she had taken him back. No objection, moralizations, or arguments. It was all the proof he needed of the devotion that he so wanted to doubt due to his own penchant for suffering abject disappointment constantly.

"You seem happy tonight, Erik." Sofia ran her fingers up and down her glass, enjoying the soft clink of her nails against the stem. The night was so warm and gentle, just like the mood of her normally tortured companion. He was like any other man sitting before her, one filled with pride and contentment.

"I am a satisfied man." His voice was more velvety and thick than before, but lovely nonetheless.

"Where is Mademoiselle Giry?" Sofia enquired lightly.

"Who?"

"Who?" Sofia's face contorted into a look of confusion, her brows knitting together. Had she heard Christine's name incorrectly? Surely Erik had not forgotten the woman whom he had worked so hard to please a fortnight prior.

"Mademoiselle…the woman, your…your companion." She did not wish to say her full name, as she was not sure if Christine had revealed to Erik their rather emotional conversation.

"Oh, Christine." He paused thoughtfully. He never stopped to think that Christine would have given a false name. He praised her inwardly; she was a deceptively clever girl.

"Yes!" Sofia smiled broadly. "You looked so dejected when you asked to borrow my carriage, and now you seem so content, is she returning to you?"

Erik mused silently to himself, his mouth turning up into a dangerously handsome smirk.

"She hasn't left, not really."

"Will you be bringing her here permanently?" Sofia enquired softly. She did not mean to sound jealous, for she wasn't, but she did fear that the lovers on her property were hiding something. If they were, she most certainly had the right to know. She had no objection to romance occurring outside her door, but destructive unions brought about ill effects for more than simply the lovers who caused the strife.

"Such a thing would not be possible, but I have many idle hours to think, and it's not something that I struggle to do. I will find a way for us, I always have." He grinned before draining the entire contents of his glass.

"She is a lucky woman, having such a dedicated paramour."

"I am far luckier than she, but that will change. If I want the world at her feet, I can give it to her. In fact, and I do not wish to sound…arrogant, I can make many things happen. Such is my nature, I am a primitive and resourceful creature." His grin widened further. He was a restless man at peace.


	26. A Dark Discovery

**Chapter 26: A Dark Discovery **

**A/N: My dearest readers, please forgive me. I have been so busy with school that I have neglected this story. However, now that it is Christmas break, I have an entire month off. Expect more than one update from your woefully irresponsible authoress. This chapter might anger some, but have faith in me!**

**Please read and review, your feedback is valued and appreciated.**

**There is an allusion to a classic novel in this chapter, let's see who can find it – it's really not difficult to spot!**

**Big thanks to Banana for polishing what was unpolished prior to making its way into their inboxes. **

* * *

**Paris, 1873**

"I have never said it aloud before, but in my heart there has never been any desire greater than to see those two fall in love. They are so much alike; he and she, and I always saw it. It's in their eyes, the way they look through the person they are speaking to. That far away, ghostly stare that they both possess. They always were remarkably similar in the way they spoke and thought. The differences came later, suffering changes the soul. Surely you know that? She became introspective and sullen, he authoritative and cruel."

"I have wanted no more than for them to find one another, to absolve each other of the sadness that plagued them both from such a young age. You are too young to see it, Meg. You have not lived long enough to watch people grow up unless you were sprouting up right beside them. But I was a grown woman when I found her, and a teenager when I found him. I watched them apart, and envisioned them together. I had always hoped for them to find one another, but not like this."

Antoinette Giry looked out of her window at the Parisian streets, just as she did every morning. It was comforting to watch the people below talk and laugh carelessly, common pleasure even, just to see them go about their days as they did in the city that was – and always would be – the very center of her universe. She was one of those people, even though she looked upon them from afar and contemplated their lives like a benevolent guard. Always judging, always seeing, but always caring. She had watched people all of her life, and in time hers had been the hand to push things into place; she was not one to tolerate disarray.

She had pushed her girls to succeed, to move and bend their bodies in ways they never thought possible.

"Express yourself with your body, speak through the dance, talk to the audience with every wave of your arm and rise of your leg." She had told them over and over, begging them to feel the words of the music and act out its emotions.

Erik had created music, and Christine alone was to bare the burden of giving his words and melodies movement and character. He was a fearsome artist, but she took his demands in stride and gave her flesh and blood to his colourless sketches. It had become clear to Antoinette that those two wayward souls were destined to find one another. The paths in their lives would wind and twist painfully, but she always continued to pray for the days that the torrid terrain they walked would intertwine.

And when it did they created something momentarily beautiful. They took passion, pain, longing, angst, and reluctant affection, composing an emotional abyss of which emerged something overwrought and compelling. _Don Juan Triumphant_ may have ended in tragedy, but it had changed the relatively self-involved city forever. The dark, ugly side of love was witnessed, deeply affecting in its terrifying reality. There had been no actors on stage, but ill-fated lovers waltzing together with a passion too fierce to be contained. But it had erupted, and in that final moment she forever lost hope that her two tortured companions would be able to save each other from themselves.

She blamed him mostly.

As Antoinette continued with her inner contemplation, Meg tapped her long nails against her teacup, the steady clink a musical chime in the soft morning silence"Are we still going to do nothing?" She asked quietly, her eyes on the plain pattern of her skirts as one hand fidgeted with her hair.

Antoinette was silent for a moment, her back to her daughter and her eyes still fixed to the cobblestone streets below. That man below her window, the one purchasing the bread, had he ever witnessed such a dark love turn into tragedy before ultimately pronouncing itself as sin?

She turned slowly, her visage as calm as ever.

"Yes. We will keep their secret, there is nothing else to be done."

Three years it had been. How do you measure days that have spent with a heavy heart? A heart that ached with the secrets it was forced to keep, and throbbed with fear for those whose secrets it held.

"Meg, women often need confidantes, and sometimes we may find ourselves in the confidence of people whom we love deeply, but differ with on certain terms." The stern woman turned around stiffly and headed towards the chair that was pulled away from the tiny wooden table. Lowering herself gingerly, she winced at the pain in her left knee. It throbbed briefly in protest as she stretched it out and curled her toes slowly, grimacing as the muscles moved. Her reliance on her cane had increased; she blamed her more sedentary lifestyle.

Meg moved her seat closer to the table to rest her chin on her hand.

"Maman, someone is going to find –"

"No!" Antoinette spoke up sharply. Her posture straightened and her eyes became alert. "No one will hear anything from our lips. Should someone else reveal this secret, so be it. It will not be us; it is not our place to toil where we do not belong. Christine's marriage does not involve you or I." Her words were – as always – final.

"What if…" Meg began, "what if Raoul finds out that we have known all along?"

Antoinette was silent for a moment before reaching for her daughter's hand, clasping it firmly and eyeing her with staunch seriousness.

"If he finds out, we will tell him that it was not our place to speak of his wife's…" she paused to search for a neutral word "infidelity."

The word was hardly neutral, Meg thought.

"Do you think she loves him?" Meg questioned, her eyes narrowing with skepticism. Christine told her it was love, and her tangents were often touching and sincere. Yet could any woman love such a wicked creature Was not dark love destined to be ill-fated and short-lived?

"I suppose." Antoinette looked out the window once more.

"Sometimes I have dreams that involve him bashing his face against a tree in a torrential rainstorm while you try frantically to calm him." Meg continued wistfully, her soft voice shaking. Antoinette raised one eyebrow and smirked knowingly.

"Well, we can only hope that we do not lose our wayward Christine forever to a child that will encounter horrid tragedy at the hands of her bitter, monstrous father

Antoinette would never admit the truth to the young woman in front of her, but the thought of such an occurrence was never far from her musings. Was truth not often stranger than fiction?

"My dear," Antoinette began, "novels are not prophecies, and thank God for that." Antoinette stood, her knee trembling as her weight briefly rested upon it. Tapping her cane against the soft floor, she patted Meg's hand lightly and walked over to where her cloak hung on the wall.

Another day had dawned and she had things to do besides brood with her fellow conspirator over the torrid life of the two people who would always dictate the course of her thoughts and certainly send her into an early grave. In fact, she had often considered having their names chiseled across her granite tombstone as the cause of her death.

* * *

"Would you like a new settee? This one is wearing very thin, look at the fabric."

Christine glanced at her husband as he sheepishly ran a hand over the tattering material of an off-white piece of furniture that no longer looked quite so brilliant against the deep lavender of the wall.

"Only if you do, I rarely use it."

"Guests must find it uninviting."

"Perhaps, I've never asked them, and most know that saying such a thing would be rude."

"Most of our guests are rude."

Christine laughed lightly.

"Remember that you said that, not I."

The only guests were, after all, Raoul's hostile and pompous relatives. Christine hated how their eyes raked over their home as if expecting filth to seep out of the cracks and crevices and ruin their clothing. The exaggerated sniffles of his aunt were most infuriating; along with her squeaky exclamation that her skin was too sensitive to tolerate dust.

Christine had a mind to shove the woman's round faceinto the floorboards beneath her bed. She imaginedthere would be plenty of dust there to satisfy the heinous creature's claims that the house was falling into ruin due to the mistresses inexperience with keeping a "proper" home.

She had also been told more than once that she was too lenient with her staff. She decided to refrain from saying that she and the staff remained silent in the presence of one another. The servants thought her haughty, and she thought them rude. Even the humblest of people are ruled by their judgments, she considered. It seemed all of the lessons that children were taught about respect and tolerance really meant nothing, for time proved that great prejudice was not only accepted, but encouraged. Once a woman of the stage, always a woman of the stage. And a woman of the stage was obviously immune to good taste.

How she hated them, with their judgmental eyes, masked sneers, and cruel whispers. If they loved Raoul, they would have reason to hate her. But they cared very little for him, and they certainly spoke just as harshly of him in his absence as they did her. Gossip entertained simple minds, and minds that become deadened due to a lack of use – or necessity – often seek enjoyment found in tormenting people who are never there to hear their names dragged so maliciously through the mud.

How she hated those who spoke but had little to say.

Oh, if they knew the woman she was. The woman she had become, and the woman she would always be.

The wife of a Vicomte who was also the mistress of a Phantom. Or perhaps Erik was her mistress, or the male equivalent of such?

If Raoul's family cared for him they would find her abhorrent for deceiving him so well and for so long. But no, they did not care, and they knew nothing. They hated her for being an untitled woman whose veins did not flow with rich, royal blue blood. They hated her torn settee and supposed lack of refinement. They hated her being born a common woman, not for being an unfaithful wife.

"Perhaps…" she thought, "perhaps that is better."

She sat down at the piano and touched the keys lightly, easing into a soft song that reminded her of him, of the man whom she would be seeing in one week. Seven days until he would appear in the garden, trudging through the thick grass with a smile on his lips and a seductive glimmer in his eye. She envisioned his strong shoulders and long, powerful legs as he moved with smooth ease towards her. It would be night, and the light of the moon and the shadows of the trees would play across the clean, white porcelain of his mask. She would walk slowly towards him, the cool ground tickling her bare feet as she rushed into his waiting arms.

She felt his lips on her own as she kissed him passionately, her hands entwining in hisebony hair as their tongues danced together in a frantic, savage rhythm. Their bodies would press together as he would lift her off her feet and hold her tightly to him. The beat of his heart would pound into her soul as his hands gripped her hips and his mouth grazed her throat. She would moan lightly, a gentle sound of longing that set his blood aflame.

Then they would ride off into the night towards his modest home and make love. Well, they would make love if they were feeling particularly romantic. Sometimes the sex was so fearsome and animalistic that she truly had no name for it. But it was beautiful then too.

"My aunt would love to hear you play at dinner next week." Raoul's voice slowly penetrated the red haze of her fantasy.

Raoul. Soft, sweet Raoul. She tried to be good to him when he was home. She enquired about his day, placed soft kisseson his cheeks when he returned home, and spoke candidly to him over dinner about her day. She would often retire to bed before him, and once beneath the silken sheets of their bed she would weep for him.

"This is a lie, we are living a lie…" She would repeat over and over again inside of her mind before drifting off to sleep.

* * *

"Do you ever have days, Philippe, where you do not feel like yourself?" Raoul forced his hand to remain in his lap even as it desperately tried to unleash itself to wave away the cigar smoke that burned his eyes and filled his lungs with its suffocating air.

"Hmm?" Philippe leaned over in his seat and gingerly shook off the ashes of his cigar. Ah, how he loved a cigar after dinner. It was the one thing that made him feel in control of his destiny; he may have been trapped under the constricting bonds of blackmail, but no one could take away his right to relax as a gentleman.

Raoul cleared his throat and leaned forward, his voice lowering, "do you ever feel like you are watching yourself live your life, but you are not really living it at all?" He could feel his face burn with embarrassment as his eyes lowered to stare at the burgundy Oriental rug beneath his leather boots. It had been rather difficult to muster the courage to articulate the strange detachment he had been feeling. He recognized his home, his possessions, and all of the people who he interacted with daily, but he never _felt_ them. Sometimes he simply watched a young man named Raoul de Changy eat, drink, and speak freely without feeling as though it was his mouth moving.

"Sometimes," he began, "sometimes I feel like nothing is real."

Philippe frowned thoughtfully, shoulders slumping as his hand rose to his chin as his legs uncrossed. He wanted to sigh, but decided such a course of action would be unwise.

"Reality is a painfully boring thing. Consider yourself fortunate."

Raoul sighed dejectedly and rose from his seat slowly, much like an old man who has seen better days. Stalking over the window, he drew the blinds harshly, staring out into the darkness. It was the same as it ever was, with trees blowing softly and casting black shadows on the rich grass.. The world outside the window was just as silent and still as the world on the other side.

"Oh, stop the melodrama!" Philippe stood up from his chair and walked to the half-full brandy decanter on the mahogany table opposite the ornate work desk. Mahogany, a gentleman's wood.

"Philippe, every three weeks we travel to London and pour money into an endeavor that we never wished to finance. We stay in hideous hotels and you entertain hideous women."

"Entertain hideous women?" Philippe scoffed, "I do not entertain them, it is they who do so with me. And I might add that I have _never_ brought one back."

"Yes you did, two years ago you brought back that garish looking girl from the brothel!"

"She was not from the brothel, she was standing outside of the opera house." Philippe poured himself a glass of the thick, amber liquid in the decanter and drained it quickly with due eagerness; musings on philosophy with his young brother required liquor-induced patience.

Raoul waved his hand dismissively, "details! She was a whore, and the room smelled of disease for days!"

"What did I tell you about melodrama?"

"Philippe, I cannot do this anymore."

"Yes you can." Philippe pacedacross the room to his brother and grasped his shoulders firmly, "you can because you must, and you must because there are no other options."

"We could go to the gendarmes –

"No!" Philippe roared before lowering his voice to a savage whisper. "Should we tell them that we have been involved in this scam for three years, and risk having our throats slit in some godforsaken London alleyway after that fished-eyed spawn of Satan gets wind of what we have done?"

"Philippe we cannot –

"Yes we can." His voice lowered and dulled. "There is too much to lose if we do not. Never underestimate the power of a determined criminal." Philippe turned his eyes to the window and crossed his arms stiffly.

Raoul lowered his head in resignation. He had to return to London, the rainy city that now only existed as his prison.He would return to the sneers and false laughter of his portly uncle, enduring days of misery in order to preserve his life and his marriage.

And what of his marriage? It was good, as far as he knew. But the woman in his bed, the same woman who sat across from him at dinner and smiled at him while they sat together in the library, often seemed like a stranger to him. Where had Lotte gone?

She was pleasant, but she was cold. Her kisses felt shallow, and her skin always seemed cool. Sometimes he would watch her from the windows when she would walk outside into the garden. She would sit there for hours, seemingly admiring the wonderful world that he had given her. A world that he could never truly be a part of, for he was never home.

And sometimes, sometimes he thought he saw her crying.

* * *

"Can you feel me, can you feel me inside of you?"

"Yes, oh yes."

"How badly do you want this?"

"Please…"

"Beg for me."

"Please, Erik…"

"Say it."

"Please…"

"You know how to ask properly."

"Erik, Erik please fuck me."

"I could never deny you anything."

With a growl he buried himself deep inside of Christine's hot, wet sex. This was heaven, his body joining with hers in frantic need. He loved the sound of their flesh caressing, rubbing, touching. It was slick, wet, and musical in its own right. Since the dawn of time people had come together in this way, and there was no greater way to fall even more in love with someone than to give them everything you have and more.

She looked glorious before him, splayed across the bed in wanton fashion, on her hands and knees with her thick hair streaming down her sweat-slicked back, covering the slim arms that trembled lightly with the weight of her body and the power of his thrusts.

He loved to watch himself move within her. They were like two wild, insatiable animals when they arrived in a state such as this. He watched her body envelop him as he moved in and out as fast and hard as she wanted.

Spreading her thighs wider, he ran his hands down her arms, pulling her into him as he pushed deeper into her. He could feel the tremendous pounding of her heart as his hands grazed her breasts and moved down to her belly. She arched into him like a catthe graceful movement of her lithe body reminded him of an agile feline.

He lowered her onto her stomach so that he could guide one of her hands to the painfully swollen nub at the apex of her thighs, bringing her to the brink of release. He loved seeing her touch herself, but he found it far easier to coax her into such an action by stimulating her with his fingers atop her own.

With one final wail she came apart beneath him and he marveled at the tremors within her body. Lightly pressing her belly, he waited for the pulsations to fade while awaiting his own release.

It was often like this. For weeks at a time he would not see her. Oh, he could see her if he so chose to. He was willing and very able. Yet he refrained from doing so, because moments like these stemmed from her absence. He never stopped wanting her, for her heart, soul, and body were his. They belonged to him, she belonged to him. He alone could make her wail so beautifully in the throes of ecstasy, and only she ignited his fierce lust. No one but her would do.

He wanted her for his wife, but if history was a teacher, he learned the value of waiting for events to unfold naturally. She may have slept beside that puppy in her rich, opulent home, but that boy never set her on fire the way he did.

That young man would shatter if Erik were able to grasp him. He could so very easily pluck the life right out of his body with a flick of his fingers. The boy had heart, but not power. Never power.

If his Christine loved her husband as deeply as she did him, she would never return to him month after month. She would never cry out in his arms, sleep curled up beside him, or spend hours just talking to him. They spoke at great length about any number of things. Her fears, her guilt, her passion. They argued, they grew angry with one another, and they laughed together. He had never laughed before her, and if she were to leave him forever, he would never laugh again.

And every night, after she had fallen asleep, he would ask if she _would_ ever stay with him forever.

He was always met with the soft sounds of her breathing.

"Would you like to move far away from here, my angel?" He would whisper into her ear as she slept. "We can take all of what we need and leave, no one shall ever have to know what became of the quiet viscountess." He kissed her shoulder softly and ran his hands though her curls. "We will go anywhere you wish, in our own home so far away. Never again will you have to lie about your comings and goings. You will be near me, with me, and beside me forever, and nothing would ever change that. We could have a world of our own, and no one could take that away from us."

He would watch the rise and fall of her chest as she moved closer to his body, her lips parting softly as she sighed. Perhaps she could hear him, but never would she answer.

As he drifted off the sleep, he spoke of the new opera that they would create. It would be the story of a dark, passionate affair that ended well for the monster. He promised her that it would take them away, far away, from the tragedy of their past and the confines of their present.

He would often link his fingers with hers and silently beg her to leave with him, some place where they could create something magnificent. Some place where they could immortalize every waking moment spent in the troubled, yet rapturous ecstasy of their union.

Only then would he allow sleep to overcome him, for he never believed in fairy tales, and he certainly was not daft enough to promise anyone a happy ending – least of all himself.

* * *

Christine had spent another three weeks with Erik. It was during those three weeks that she felt as though she were walking on her two feet, free from the shackles that attached themselves to her ankles when she was at home.

The guilt, shame, and anguish seemed to melt away whenever she found herself back in his arms. Of course, their time together was never perfect, and his silent pleading for her to remain with him often ripped at her traitorous heart more viciously than Raoul's ignorance. It was then that she often thought about what life would be like spent as Erik's wife. Being his paramour was exciting, if not daunting. He was a complex man, one with a heart of darkness that allowed brilliant white light to shine through with every smile and passionate thought. Yet there were times when she felt as thought she did not know him – that she would never truly know him. His mind was a mystery, and it harbored dark secrets.

Then again, so did hers.

She remembered the moments spent in complete and utter tranquility with her lover. The walks by the river, the banter in the house during the mornings, the nights in the library. Christine remembered the morning several months ago when she had been leaning over the counter rather lazily, only to feel a hand roughly pat her backside. She had let out a squeal and turned to give her assailant an earth-shattering stare, only to be met with a slightly harder slap.

"It's something too delectable to resist, and you practically beg for it when you lie across my furniture in such a wanton position, my dear."

"Don't be such a pig."

"Well," he licked her earlobe, "do not entice me."

Every day was a surprise, good or bad, and the thought of letting him go always grew more and more unbearable with each one.

They set out for her home that afternoon with heavy hearts and silent stares. A week was eternity for them, and solitude was never desirable. They sat in silence in Sofia's carriage, their minds elsewhere. What the weeks ahead entailed often occupied their thoughts on these journeys. For Christine, the torture of her lies always confronted her at the door of her home. The home that she shared with her husband, who would shortly be returning from his business trip. He took many.

Christine remembered the whispers exchanged amongst noble women at the Populaire. They spoke of unfaithful husbands who inform their wives that work occupies a great deal of their time; while in actuality they are visiting mistresses. No one was ignorant of the infidelity of men – or some women – but still it was hidden, and rightfully so. If Raoul had taken a lover, and she doubted such a thing, she would be…

Indifferent.

Numb.

Uncaring.

Anything but concerned. Such was the truth, and it pained her to acknowledge how far she had fallen away from the principles she once embraced. Every little girl dreamed of a beautiful wedding in a pristine white wedding dress – the ultimate symbol of purity. How she imagine being carried off to a gorgeous canopy bed by her husband, who would look sublimely dashing in his fine black suit. How in love they would be, and how innocent and pure each press of their lips was destined to be.

Now a kiss was anything but innocent, and a wedding was no more than a farce. The spectrum of human emotion went far beyond the realm of ideals.

The abrupt ceasing of the carriage interrupted Christine's reverie, and her body jolted forward as the horse's hooves dug into the uneven ground before her abode. Awkwardly she sat and waited for Erik to open the door as she straightened her skirts and pushed her hair off of her shoulders.

"Mademoiselle?" He held out his hand playfully and she took it, her fingers gripping his tightly. He never referred to her as a married woman when in good humor.

Christine looked at the grounds carefully, checking to make sure that they were deserted.

"Let us go around the back." She gripped Erik's hand tighter and pulled him beside her as she walked swiftly to the back to the house. Dusk was descending upon them, and the air was becoming cooler. This was Erik's favourite time of day, those brief hours between light and dark.

She could feel his hand lightly graze her lower back as she moved, and her entire body tingled with warmth. In mere seconds they would be saying goodbye, but for now, every touch was cherished. It was odd how desperate people could become to caress each other when they knew that the opportunity to do so would elude them for weeks thereafter. Desperation compels the body to speak boldly.

"It wont be long until I return," Christine pressed one hand against Erik's uncovered cheek as she spoke softly.

"You and I measure time quite differently then, it seems." He responded gruffly.

"Let's not dwell on sadness."

"Ah, but sadness helps us to appreciate the moments when we are at our most joyous." Erik pressed his lips to hers roughly, his mouth crushing her lips with wild abandon.

And it was then that the sound of their lips moving upon one another's masked the sound of a brandy glass crashing to the floor as an aghast Philippe de Chagny let the crystal fall from his hand.


	27. An Ending

**Chapter 27: An Ending**

**A/N: Sweet, sweet glorious readers of my story, please look to my LJ for the latest excuses as to why this chapter is so late in arriving. This is not the last chapter, far from it. Do not be fooled by the ending.**

**Big thanks to my lovely Beta, Banana!**

**Oh, and don't forget to review ;).**

* * *

She could not have been sure if she had heard correctly. In fact, she had spent three days convincing herself that she had heard nothing. Her home was by no means old, but even the most pristine of structures allowed for the occasional creak. Well, in all actuality she had heard what she perceived to be more of a grunt, but who could be sure that the noise was human and not imagined? Was the sound she heard the aghast exclamation of a man, or was it the howl of the wind against a window?

The two sounded quite similar.

Didn't they?

"No," she reasoned to herself, "they sound nothing alike at all."

Her trepidation turned to fear. It was not her constant state of mind, for the body cannot take heart-rending terror for hours and days on end at its most potent. Terror must peak before fading, but the fading never made the peaks less difficult, and during those times of absolute horror she would lay her head in her hands and shudder.

She had been seen. Someone had come upon her during a moment that was not only private, but also enormously damaging should it be revealed. She was with the man whom she had run from so many years ago , and his was the face that destroyed the glamorous world of art for a most ignorant public.

Or perhaps she was not seen. Perhaps it truly was nothing. Just a noise that was natural, harmless, and fleeting.

Christine often found herself straining her eyes when her home was at its quietest, and she would silently pray for that suspicious noise to present itself to her again. Many times she thought she heard it, but that peak of terror would manifest itself in her mind and convince her that her thinking was both wishful and naïve.

That fateful afternoonshe had heard footsteps as they charged down her hallway and into the street. She had seen nothing, but she had felt the presence of another.

She could no longer sleep. The peaks of fear would fade, and for a moment she would find herself comforted by her rationale: houses are noisy; wood makes noise; settling wood often imitates footsteps.

But most of all, fear and guilt create paranoia.

That was it. Her deception was simply confronting her. Her lies were staring her in the face, and they were hideous in appearance. They frightened her, and while she succumbed to fright she entertained morbid visions of discovery.

She had every reason to be deathly afraid. Should she and Erik be discovered, their lives would come to an end. Hers would close in upon itself figuratively; she could not promise herself that Erik's safety would be salvaged.

Fear was sinister, but it was as important as oxygen. Fear kept her alert just as it kept soldiers alive and leaders wary. It was strong, overpowering, omnipotent. It could determine one's fate, and of this fact she was most painfully aware. She had to be afraid, and yet the crippling dread that quickened her heartbeat and soaked her hands with icy sweat rendered her an emotional invalid.

If hell was real and souls destined to fill its red depths, it existed on earth; fear was hell. There was no rest to be found, no contentment to be sought, and no comfort to be achieved when fear drove one to distraction.

For weeks Christine walked about like a ghost. She ignored people when they spoke to her and her disjointed responses raised many an eyebrow. She had twice been told that she looked to be in need of sleep, and she found herself unable to argue with the advice. Her eyes were puffy and almost black from worry, she knew, but during those few fitful hours when her mind drifted off to sleep, she only dreamt of discovery. She could no longer even bear the thought of sleep.

But her fears, although potent, remained unrealized for five harrowing days of intense contemplation.

He had been overwhelmed for days. Philippe de Changy was not what one would call an emotional man, but he had spent the better part of a week falling victim to a great assault. Torturous feelings were his constant torment. At one moment he was gleeful, the joy in his blood leaping with excitement. He had discovered the largest diamond the world had ever seen, and he had done no more than stumble into the cavern that contained it.

Philippe - if he so chose - had the opportunity to become a rich man. His diamond, though blackened by scandal, was highly coveted. What respectable Parisian newspaper would not absolutely crumble at his feet should the glittering treasure be dangled before their eyes?

If the story sold, no one would challenge his assertions. The man had been there, shielded by glass and ensconced in the offending woman's very sitting room. He had been enjoying his brandy and looking out into the garden, an innocent action. It was while he was simply admiring the landscape that he discovered a secret far darker than any that the ravenously hungry Parisian aristocracy had seen in years. If the social upper crust wanted gossip, dear God they would have it!

He saw that masked demon of man kissing the very soprano that he had pursued with violent abandon three years prior; saw her kissing him back with equal ardour.

She would never dare deny it, for no one would believe her. She was only a showgirl who used a daring Vicomte to escape a life of debauched obscurity.

Everyone saw her the night that the Populaire's chandelier came crashing down with hellish intent upon a horrified audience. It was powered by the greatest hostility, and the shattering of the crystal and explosion of the lights turned the once opulent theatre into a molten volcano.

Everyone had seen her on stage with that man. All who watched noticed the way that she allowed him to touch her. Those who sat close to the stage saw the look on her face, that look of naked female desire. One would have to be been blind not to be titillated – or offended – by the hungry look upon her young face.

She might as well have written an enormous sign that read: "Please take me Masked Murderer, no one shall be bothered by it."

Philippe chuckled to himself.

Then the laughter stopped.

The papers would sell, surely. The tongues would wag accordingly. The city would be thrown onto its back, (and no game of cards or meeting of ladies would ever again be the same). Some would call her a shameless whore, while others would insist that her insanity surpassed the masked villain's. Some would speak of their affair as one of legend and allude to fictional works dealing with the darkness of destructive love. Romeo and Juliet, Heathcliff and Catherine, or other such characters known for delving into erotic nonsense. The romantics would be elated, the gossips appeased, and the aristocrats, well…

They would be fragmented. Some would be smug about the fall of the de Changy's, and others would be made furious by it.

They would never again garner an invitation to a family gathering. The doors leading to rooms filled with boisterous noble gentlemen and their dignified ladies would lock at the sight of their carriage traveling up the street. Windows would be barred, establishments closed, and smiles frozen at the very thought of de Changy company. Raoul would forever be the man who was duped into marrying a harlot, and Philippe would join his rank as a fool.

Philippe sighed dejectedly. He would need to forsake his desire for money in order to keep his name – faded as it was – in high standing.

He would not, however, allow that sham of a romance to continue.

Christine had refused company again. Meg seemed concerned, but she brushed off her need for isolation with the feeble excuse of a headache. It seemed that women substituted headaches for any number of maladies. Boredom, loneliness, fear, pain, sadness. It was simply not prudent to say that you wished to be alone or that dinner was displeasing. A headache was the only suitable excuse for a lady to make when the rituals of life disagreed with her.

She had to appear troubled by illness and not by circumstance. It was easier to fall victim to one's traitorous body rather than one's morbid thoughts. She was a noble woman now, and thoughts were unnecessary, were they not?

And so when Philippe knocked on the door shortly after Meg's departure, she was prepared to greet him with the same excuse. Still, she found herself rather puzzled as she made her way down the stairs as to why he would appear at her house alone.

Her mind briefly entertained thoughts of Raoul in trouble. Was this one of those torrid greetings of legend where the feeble heroine succumbs to a faint after being informed that her beloved husband had fallen valiantly in battle? Or in Raoul's case, in a valiant carriage ride from London to France?

Her pace increased as she waved the butler away and pried the heavy oak door open herself, her face flushed and pink from the exertion of tearing down steps with images of an injured Raoul playing in front of her eyes.

"Philippe?"

"Christine." His tone was as cold as ice.

She shuddered inwardly. His eyes were empty, and if she dared to call upon religious rhetoric during her crisis of faith and morality, she would have said that they appeared soulless.

He had come to speak of something important. Dreadfully so.

Christine's heart fell into her bowels as she moved aside to allow him entrance. He looked at her as though she were dead. Non-existent. A spectre. An annoying one at that; one in need of immediate exorcism and eradication.

Christine could place the look on his face. It was disgust.

He stalked past her and stepped into the sitting room, the heels of his boots crashing against the tiles as he moved. He was walking like an enraged animal, one who wore expensive clothing and groomed himself impeccably.

She walked after him, her steps nearly as urgent as his. If he was going to charge into her home like a lumbering bear and stare at her like she was gutter-ridden filth, she would certainly find out why.

Then she felt it; that peak, that precipice of emotion that replaced logic with sensation. Her skin burned and her mind reeled with disbelief. She could feel her control over her limbs slipping away as she moved towards the sitting room, and her lungs ached terribly as she struggled to catch her breath.

_'What if…'_

_'Did he?'_

_'No…'_

_'But he could have…'_ Her thoughts were disoriented and frantic, the connotations behind them severe. If she had ever possessed composure before, her ability to obtain it had been lost forever by then.

Her body burned with panic as her intellect was buried under an avalanche of crushing realization.

_He knew._

She breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. She tried to look normal, if not slightly austere. The panic was slowly beginning to fade, but still her heart hammered in violent terror.

"Please sit." Philippe's voice was cold. So icy and direct, so vicious in its delivery.

Christine forced herself not to tremble as she sat upon the settee. The torn one that Raoul had offered to have replaced.

Raoul…

Christine felt her control slip away once again at the thought of her husband. She had been so clever, never distancing herself from him or shying away from his touch. He believed her to be of a delicate disposition, and she allowed him to think of her as a wilted rose, for it made her dreamy airs seem commonplace rather than suspicious. She spoke to him as she always did, never turning cold or untouchable. He did not deserve her resentment or disdain, nor did his inoffensive presence call forth her ire. She loved another, but she cared for the man to whom she was bound in the eyes of the law and God.

She wanted to live forever in two worlds, and she had for three years. Three long years of passion, three long years of pain.

How could she be so careless? So naïve? So confident in her own ability to deceive? Her life was really no life at all, yet it was the only life she had and she often found herself deeply in love with it, even as she had spent countless hours mourning it.

Now where was she?

"I will make this brief and direct." Philippe cleared his throat and laid his palms flat out in the table in front of him. They were white with tension.

Christine met his gaze.

"Oh?" She inquired.

"I saw you."

She thought that she had prepared herself for the incoming panic while in the hallway, but her chest seemed to cave in at the sharpness of his words. His telling, damning, fatal words.

"Saw me what?" She cleared her throat in turn and focused on steadying her voice.

_'Look calm, controlled, and unperturbed…'_ she spoke to herself.

He scoffed loudly.

The paleness of her face and the naked fear in her eyes revealed her more absolutely than any confession. He had her cornered like a beaten animal, and he would have her on the end of his knife before they were through. He would skewer her so deeply that she would beg, _positively beg_ to comply with his demands.

She shook like a leaf. She was caught, that she knew. As he watched her paling face he could envision the pieces of the puzzle connecting in her mind's eye. He had taken the time to clean to the broken glass, but he made no effort to conceal his thunderous steps as he fled from the house with an oxymoronic mix of gleeful agony.

She had heard him, and had probably spent the last few days doubting her comforting assertions that her imagination had tricked her.

Tricked her it had not.

"Does he beat you?" Philippe questioned.

Christine's glance shot upward, her eyes wide and mouth agape.

"What?"

Philippe remained stoic and still. He glanced down at his fingernails while lifting one leg to rest his ankle casually atop his knee.

"My brother," he continued, "does he beat you?"

"Excuse me?" Her voice was hoarse, she knew.

"You heard me!" The sudden sharpness in his tone gave her a sudden start.

"I don't think that you under-"

"No Christine, it is you who does not understand me. I will ask one more time. Does Raoul beat you? Mistreat you? Raise his hand to you during quarrels?"

"Of course he doesn't!" She responded with equal sharpness.

Philippe uncrossed his legs and leaned in towards her, his visage severe and unyielding. She could see the anger seep into his face, the reddening of his skin and the light sheen of sweat across his forehead made him appear more a formidable foe than a pampered aristocrat with an elite axe to grind against her lineage.

She stayed still, not daring to move towards him, but refusing to back away. It was best to face accusations – even if they were true – with an air of confidence. Madame Giry would do such a thing. She had probably done it often.

Philippe's voice was silently menacing when he spoke again.

"How do you live with yourself?"

Christine sighed, attempting to buy herself a few second with which to regain some measure of composure. The accusation ran deep, much deeper than she had imagined it would.

'At least,' she thought to herself, 'at least Philippe loves his brother enough to take this route with me.'

The thought failed to relieve her more selfish anxieties, however.

"How!" He barked out harshly.

She jumped backwards and nearly shrieked when he gripped her shoulders. He had moved so swiftly that she had barely seen him forsake his seat.

"He does not beat you, harm you, or frighten you in any way!" Philippe spat as he shook her body violently. Her hands gripped his own in a feeble attempt to remove them, but his hold on her was too strong.

"Have you never looked at what you have betrayed him for?"

Christine pondered briefly as to the identity of the "what" that he referred to. Was the "what" the affair or Erik? Perhaps it was both.

"Philippe, stop!" She wrenched his hands off of her and backed away, gasping for breath as though he had wrapped his hands around her neck and not her shoulders. Every part of her was trembling violently, but she deserved this, she knew as much. She had neglected to truly entertain the possibility of discovery, refused to use her foresight to predict it. She had approached her involvement with Erik containing an air of naivety and a dangerous albeit subconscious feeling of invincibility.Like a young man in a carriage careening down a wooded path in the dark of night, she knew that the possibility of fatality was high, if not inevitable. Yet like that very boy, she had held fast to the belief that it was not yet her time. It was taking a tremendous chance, but the feelings she derived from it were so pure despite their dark undertones. Perhaps she had assumed that fate would protect them, as it had beaten both mercilessly in the past with its cruelties. Perhaps the thought of this present confrontation was simply too horrifying to bear during those moments of immense, hedonistic pleasure.

"Philippe," Christine began silently, "what do you intend to do?"

He was silent for what felt like hours. She could hear the ticking of the clock on the wall, and each almost silent click seemed to signify the coming culmination of her fate. She had never much liked Raoul's haughty brother, but her life was in his hands. As was Erik's.

"I intend for you to end it."

"End it?" She questioned cautiously.

"Yes," his voice seemed to drift as he spoke, even his body turned away from her, "you will end your little…" he paused to search for a word "endeavour."

'No,' Christine thought to herself, 'no, it could not be so easy, so direct…'

"You will tell your lover that your relations must cease. You do not need to give a reason other than your understandable and warranted guilt. You are a wife, and not his either. Even he should understand that."

"That cannot be all…" Christine mused quietly, more to herself than to him.

"It is all, actually." Philippe's voice was flippant once more.

"Your affair compromises the safety of this household and the integrity of this family. If you continue it, you will ruin all of us, has that never occurred to you?"

"It has," she began carefully, "but I swear to you that no harm shall befall Raoul-"

"You do not know that!" Philippe's voice sharpened again, the dulled razor regaining its lethal edge.

"End it, Christine." He spoke with an air of finality. "End it now, or so help me God, I shall have you thrown in prison for being an accomplice to a murderer and I will have that very same murderer hanged. Do not doubt my influence, if I so desire, I can destroy you both. Do not think that you can soften or reason with me. Good day to you."

Christine listened as his boot heels clicked against the tiles as he made his way towards the door.

"Oh!" He called out. "If I find out – and I will – that you have dared to see him again over the course of the next few weeks, I will kill you both myself. Is that understood? I will have people watching your every move; I would not attempt to see him again. Except, of course, for when you wish to tell him that you no longer want to remain in his company. You'll do that tonight."

Christine moved towards the voice that seethed with such dangerous self-assurance, but she was met with the slamming of the door and its echo in the vast foyer.

Philippe had never regarded her as an equal, of that she was well aware. But now he saw her as a creature, one whom he had no qualms about threatening with imprisonment and death – not necessarily in that order. She had always felt mildly disliked by him, but now she watched as that socially provoked disdain turned to hatred. He cared for her just as much as he did a beggar. He could hardly bear to even look at her.

She was torn. She wanted to rage with indignation, weep with despair, flee from the house that had become her unintended prison forever. Surely a life as a traveling, wayward woman would be better than living through this nightmare of her own making. She could not, would not dismiss Erik. If she did, she would die. If she did not, death would still come to greet her, just as promised by Raoul's vengeful sibling. She was set to live her life with a pistol shoved against her temple no matter which destiny she chose.

She ached, terribly so. Her chest was caving in on itself, her heart crushed by the weight of her anguish. She was caught, and she was given an ultimatum. She was to tell Erik that she no longer loved him, for if she told him of Philippe's visit, he would surely kill him. She hated Philippe, but she would not spend the rest of her life attempting to wash his blood off of her hands at night.

Her and Erik had created something deadly long ago. It had killed the innocent before, but she would see herself gutted and maimed before allowing it to happen again. They had come so far, he and she. From anguish to ecstasy. From grief to happiness. From fear to love. She had wounded him just as he had her, and together they had healed each other. They had turned a tragedy into something beautiful, and she would not stand to see that beauty destroyed.

Yes, ending their love would destroy it, but she would not watch it turn to something destructive. There was a difference, a grand one at that.

* * *

The journey toErik's home was the longest she had ever taken. Everything that she saw reminded her of something they had done together, something they had shared that no one else could ever know about.

A rock, a tree, a flattened patch of grass. She and Erik had been there once, at a time when both were happier.

She would never be happy again. She had decided, and she knew that she was right.

After her father died, she had sworn to herself that same oath. Without the one person who had brought her such comfort and love, she was very much alone. The lonely can never be happy, for their fears, doubts, and saddened lamentations feast upon their souls. They have no one with whom to share their thoughts, and they turn those thoughts upon themselves.

She was alone without her father, but in his absence she had found an angel. When her angel revealed himself to be nothing but a man, she could not mourn his deception. She had friends and a newfound love to ground her, and she saw in her supposed angel something beautiful. It was a hard beauty to seek out, as it was shrouded in danger and deceit, but it was there nonetheless.

When she lost the man behind the voice, she had been alone once more. She hated herself for feeling alone, but her distaste faded away when she found him again. She resisted for so long. So long.

Then there came a time where she could resist no longer, and in relenting to her desires she found peace. Such a rare, beautiful thing it was. But now it was shattered, and she would never know peace again.

"This is a noble sacrifice," she reminded herself as she drew closer to Erik's home.

He was not expecting her, and surely his reaction would be one of elation. He would open the door slightly, his masked face peering out the room and into the darkness enveloping her, the white porcelain illuminated by the glow of the moonlight. The inside of his abode would be dark, and he would pull her into it swiftly upon taking in her form.

He would lean in to kiss her, stealing the breath from her body. He would touch her, his hands frantic and possessive as he silently celebrated his hold over her, that hold that had her returning to him time and time again.

"I love you," he would say. He said it frequently, at any available interval. Over breakfast, over arguments, over companionable silences, over top of her body at night.

"I know Erik," he would expect her to moan out breathlessly, "I know." She would tell him that she loved him too. At least, that is what he would expect.

Tonight, no such thing would happen.

It could never happen again.

Christine wondered if anyone else had ever felt their soul sucked out as slowly as hers was being. She was dying. Her body was young and healthy, but her blood ran cold as she came closer to the most harrowing moment of her life thus far.

"I have died tonight." She whispered to herself.

She knocked on his door, her hand feeling dead as it banged against the dew-moistened wood.

She heard his heavy footsteps, just as she expected.

He opened the door just a crack, that familiar mask greeting her. His eyes were – as she had imagined – suspicious at being disturbed at such an hour. Then they lit up with surprise. He was most pleased to see her; she could tell by the way his stern expression had broken into a wide smile.

He looked beautiful when he was like that. Just like that.

He opened the door fully and wound one arm around her waist, pulling her into his chest as he dragged her into the room. His body was so warm, so strong and protective against the deadened shell that was her own.

He leaned into her, just as she had anticipated. His hand swept into her hair and loosened the tightly bound strands just before his fingers drifted downwards to stroke her cheek as he pressed his lips against her forehead, the rough stubble of his face grazing her skin as he moved down towards her lips.

She remained still and unmoving as his lips pressed against her own. She did not remember moving her hands, but suddenly her fingers were between his mouth and her own. She held it there firmly, intent to keep him from kissing her.

She sighed loudly, her body trembling with a suppressed sob. Now was not the time for tears.

He pulled back and eyed her carefully.

"Is something the matter?" He questioned gruffly, her silent rebuff wounding him. He was easily discouraged. He always had been.

"No." She answered quickly.

He raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Yes." She said. "Something has happened."

He looked alarmed, his body immediately stiffened and his height seemed to increase by miles. He was formidable when affronted, and this situation was no different.

"Care to enlighten me?" He questioned impatiently.

"We…" She cleared her throat, "Erik, I'm so sorry." Her voice broke, the words escaping her throat like a torrent of rain.

"What has happened?" He reached out to touch her, his hands attempting to gently grip her shoulders, but she shrugged him off violently. Throwing herself into a nearby chair she rested her head in her hands and mumbled incoherently. This was too much, it simply could not be. Not now, not after all of this time.

"Christine!" He stalked over to her and attempted to pry her face from her hands.

"Look at me!" He demanded, but she kept her head low.

"I can't!" She stood just as suddenly as she had sat and tore towards one of the windows, staring at her tear-stained reflection in the pristine glass.

"What is wrong?" He sounded as though he were beginning to panic. She had never heard his voice take on a tone as desperate as the one he was using. She had seen him rage with anger and seethe with indignation. She had heard him weep with anguish. Never had she seen him speak as though he was overwhelmed and…frightened.

"Speak to me!" He pressed her into the window, his body caging hers effectively, forcing her to remain immobile.

She turned to him, her breath still catching in her throat as she forced by the tears that wanted nothing more than to spill forward.

"I…" she began, "we cannot do this. We cannot do this anymore."

He looked at her, his expression oddly vacant. He hadn't heard her, or if he had, he was unwilling to acknowledge her words.

"What?" His voice seemed cold, cold and far away.

"I have been feeling…guilty. We need to stop."

His expression was harder than stone.

"You love me."

His simple exclamation made her break into another fit of tears.

"Christine, Christine please…" He reached for her again, but she shrugged him off. She could not bear to turn and face him. He would see the truth if he looked at her, for she knew her face was transparent, an open book that he could easily read.

He was in disbelief. This…this could not happen. They had been together for so long, through many years of happiness. Their moments were moments stolen in secret, but not even that could rob them of their poignancy. Even she, she who sacrificed a marriage to be with him, was fulfilled by their time together.

Had he frightened her in some way? Did she come to him under threat of death? Was she obligated to be with him out of duty to her own life? He had never forced her to return, nor did he hold her freedom of life over her head should she refuse him.

She came because she wanted him.

Had she not?

"Erik, I'm sorry." She sobbed.

"Why?" He questioned frantically, the horror in his voice asserting itself. "Why are you saying this? What the fuck are you sorry about!" He was shouting now, his booming voice nearly shaking the panes of glass in the windowsill.

His shouts only made her withdraw further into herself.

"This is wrong, Erik." She said, her voice slowly calming itself by tiny degrees.

"Guilt, is it?" He asked, his throat stretched taught over the venomous poison that threatened to spill out at any moment.

She did not answer.

"You have decided that you no longer want to commit a mortal sin, is that it?" His voice was dangerously low.

"You're a liar!" He barked out viciously.

"No…"

"I don't want to hear it!" He interrupted.

"Erik…"

"NO!" With one sweeping motion he sent a wine glass and a pewter candlestick crashing to the floor. The glass shattered magnificently and littered the room with tiny, glittering fragments.

"You are pregnant, aren't you?" He turned on her swiftly, like an enraged lion confronted with a sinister attacker.

"No-"

"Oh, you see nothing wrong with whoring yourself to some strange, deadly creature who excites you. But heaven forbid that you carry his bastard child. No, it must have blue blood and a recognizable father. You wouldn't want to embarrass yourself and shame the unborn creature."

Christine looked at him as though he had slapped her. Indeed, she had felt like he did.

Whore? Bastard child?

She would have almost preferred to be the shattered glass strewn across the floor.

"How dare you-" She began

"Stop speaking!" He bellowed.

"I will not!" She interjected frantically. "You must listen, I-"

"I gave you everything once, and you took it all away from me. I am not surprised that you have chosen to do so again. In fact, I am pleased to know that I was a fool. I've always been a fool. Take your bastard child and leave." His words were like bullets pumping her body full of lead. He was killing her slowly, elongating the pain as much as possible.

"If that is all you can think to say, I now know that you are just as blind as you were three years ago."

"Indeed."

"Still, I must reassure you that I am not pregnant."

"You lie." His reserve was solid.

"If you choose to believe that, you may. Good bye Erik, I never wanted it to end like this." She tried to sound as valiant as she could, there was nothing more for tears to accomplish. He thought her a harlot and a liar. She could have told him then about Philippe, but he would not have listened. He did not want to listen. At that moment, she hated him. How easily he dismissed her. How easily he accused her of deceit. Once a beast, always a beast.

"Get out."

She turned and walked out, too lost in her own anguish to hear the splintering wood of his door as it was slammed shut with inhuman force.

It was over, he and she. The love of great literature faded into the night along with the echo of the slamming door. Another chapter written, another story ended.

**A/N: Have faith guys, it's not over yet!**


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